\o  \  S 

K   . 


50 


328  MICKLE  STREET 
FROM  A  PAINTING      IOS      BY  MARSDEN  HARTLEY 


WALT  WHITMAN 
IN  MICKLE  STREET 

ELIZABETH  LEAVITT  KELLER 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT  1921  BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 
J.  J.  LITTLE  AND  IVES  COMPANY,  NEW 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 

ELIZABETH  LEAVITT  KELLER 
was  born  at  Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  on  No 
vember  3,  1839.  Both  her  parents  were 
descended  from  the  first  settlers  of  this 
country,  and  each  in  turn  came  to  Buffalo 
in  its  early  days,  her  mother,  Sarah  Ellis, 
by  private  conveyance  in  1825,  and  her 
father,  James  S.  Leavitt,  by  way  of  the 
newly  opened  Erie  Canal  in  1834. 

Elizabeth  was  the  second  daughter.  In 
the  spring  of  1841  she  was  taken  to  Niagara 
Falls,  and  all  her  childhood  recollections  are 
clustered  around  that  place.  Returning  to 
Buffalo  in  1846,  her  father  opened  a  book- 
bindery,  and  later  added  a  printing  office 
and  stationery  store. 

At  nineteen  years  of  age  Elizabeth 
Leavitt  was  married  to  William  Wallace 
Keller,  of  Little  Falls,  N.  Y.  Seven  years 
later  she  became  a  widow. 

Her  natural  instinct  for  nursing  was  de 
veloped  during  the  Civil  War  and  the  years 
that  followed,  but  the  time  and  opportunity 


vl  EDITOR'S  NOTE 

for  professional  training  did  not  come  until 
1876,  when,  her  two  children  being  provided 
for,  she  was  free  to  apply  for  admission  to 
the  school  for  nurses  connected  with  the 
Women's  Hospital  in  Philadelphia  —  one  of 
the  three  small  training  schools  then  existing 
in  the  United  States. 

Before  her  course  was  finished  her  younger 
sister  died.  Mrs.  Keller  left  the  hospital  to 
take  care  of  the  five  motherless  children, 
and  it  was  not  until  ten  years  later  that  she 
was  free  to  resume  her  training.  When  she 
graduated  she  was  a  grandmother  —  the 
only  one,  it  need  scarcely  be  said,  in  the 
class. 

While  nursing  her  patient,  Walt  Whitman, 
during  his  last  illness,  she  learnt  much  about 
his  personality  and  home  life,  and  much 
also  about  his  unselfish  friend  and  house 
keeper,  Mrs.  Davis.  The  desire  to  tell  the 
truth  about  the  whole  case  —  so  often  mis 
understood  or  distorted  —  grew  stronger 
with  the  passing  years,  and  finally  Mrs.  Kel 
ler  entered  an  old  ladies'  home  in  her  own 
city,  where  she  would  have  leisure  to  carry 
out  her  design.  Here  the  book  was  com 
menced  and  completed.  "After  numerous 
struggles  and  disappointments,"  she  writes, 
"my  second  great  desire  —  to  set  Mrs. 


EDITOR'S  NOTE  vii 

Davis  in  her  true  light  —  has  been  fulfilled 
—  this  time  by  a   great-grandmother !" 

It  is  not  often  that  a  great-grandmother, 
after  a  long  life  of  service  to  others,  sees  her 
first  book  published  on  her  eighty-second 
birthday. 

Mrs.  Keller  uses  her  pen  as  if  she  were 
twenty  or  thirty  years  younger.  Her  letters 
are  simple  but  cheery,  her  outlook  on  life 
contented  but  in  no  way  obscured.  Not 
deliberately,  but  through  a  natural  gift,  she 
conveys  vivid  impressions  of  the  world  as 
it  now  appears  to  her,  just  as  she  conveys 
so  unpretentiously  but  unforgettably  in  her 
book  the  whole  atmosphere  of  Walt  Whit 
man's  world,  when  it  had  been  narrowed  to 
the  little  frame  house  in  Mickle  Street,  and 
finally  to  a  bed  of  suffering  in  one  room  of 
that  little  house. 

Whatever  else  her  book  may  be,  it  is  an 
extraordinary  instance  of  revelation  through 
simplicity;  the  picture  stands  out  with  all 
its  details,  not  as  a  work  of  conscious  art, 
but  assuredly  as  a  work  that  the  artist,  the 
student  of  life  and  of  human  nature,  will 
be  glad  to  have. 

CHARLES  VALE 


PREFACE 

HAD  it  ever  occurred  to  me  that  the 
time  might  come  when  I  should  feel 
impelled  to  write  something  in  regard  to  my 
late  patient,  Walt  Whitman,  I  should  have 
taken  care  to  be  better  prepared  in  anticipa 
tion;  would  have  kept  a  personal  account, 
jotted  down  notes  for  my  own  use,  observed 
his  visitors  more  closely,  preserved  all  my 
correspondence  with  Dr.  Bucke,  and  record 
ed  items  of  more  or  less  interest  that  fade 
from  memory  as  the  years  go  by.  Still,  I 
have  my  diary,  fortunately,  and  can  be 
true  to  dates. 

After  I  had  been  interviewed  a  number  of 
times,  and  had  answered  various  questions 
to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief,  I 
was  surprised  to  see  several  high-flown  ar 
ticles  published,  all  based  on  the  meagre 
information  I  had  furnished,  and  all  imper 
fect  and  unsatisfactory. 

Interviewers  seemed  to  look  for  some 
thing  beyond  me ;  to  wait  expectantly  in  the 
hope  that  I  could  recall  some  unusual  thing 


x  PREFACE 

in  Mr.  Whitman's  eccentricities  that  I  alone 
had  observed;  words  that  I  alone  had  heard 
him  speak;  opinions  and  beliefs  I  alone  had 
heard  him  express ;  anything  remarkable,  not 
before  given  to  the  public.  They  wanted  the 
sensational  and  exclusive,  if  possible.  I  sup 
pose  that  was  natural. 

But  it  set  me  thinking  that  if  my  knowl 
edge  was  of  any  value  or  interest  to  others, 
why  not  write  a  truthful  story  myself,  in 
stead  of  having  my  words  enlarged  upon, 
changed  and  perverted?  Simple  facts  are 
surely  better  than  hasty  exaggerations. 

I  have  done  what  I  could.  One  gentle 
man  (Mr.  James  M.  Johnston,  of  Buffalo), 
who  has  read  the  manuscript,  and  for  whose 
opinion  I  have  the  greatest  regard,  remarked 
as  he  returned  it:  "It  appears  to  me  that 
your  main  view  in  writing  this  was  to  exon 
erate  Mrs.  Davis." 

He  had  discovered  a  fact  I  then  recog 
nized  to  be  the  truth. 

My  greatest  fear  is  that  I  may  have 
handled  the  whole  truth  too  freely — without 
gloves. 

E.  L.  K, 


CONTENTS 

I  MARY    OAKES  DAVIS  I 

n  WALT  WHITMAN'S  HOME  8 

III  THE  MICKLE  STREET  HOUSE  1 8 

IV  THE  NEW  REGIME  2J 
V  CURIOUS  NEIGHBORS  37 

VI  MR.  WHITMAN  DRIVES  47 

VII      BROOMS,         BILLS         AND         MENTAL 

CHLOROFORM  55 

VTn  VISITING   AND  VISITORS  67 

IX  A  BUST  AND  A  PAINTING  73 

X  REST AND  ROUTINE  87 

XI  A  SHOCK,  AND  SOME  CHANGES  IOO 

XII  ANCHORED  113 

XIII  WARREN     FRITZINGER  119 

XIV  FRIENDS,     MONEY,    AND    A     MAUSO 

LEUM  133 

XV  THE  LAST  BIRTHDAY  PARTY  142 

XVI  THE    NEW    NURSE  I5O 

xvii    "SHIFT,    WARRY"  167 

XVIII  WINDING  UP  176 


xii  CONTENTS 

XIX     THE  TRIAL  1 82 

XX     CONCLUSION  187 

WALT  WHITMAN'S  MONUMENTS,  BY 

GUIDO  BRUNO  195 

WALT  WHITMAN  SPEAKS  2O7 

INDEX  225 


WALT  WHITMAN 
IN  MICKLE  STREET 


/  write  this  book 

in  loving  memory  of 

three  of  the  most  kind-hearted, 

unselfish  and  capable  people  I  ever  knew 

I  Dedicate  It 

to 
ALEX.  Me A LISTER,  M.D. 


HALCYON  DAYS 

Not  from  successful  love  alone, 

Nor  wealth,  nor  honored  middle-age, 

Nor  victories  of  politics  or  war; 

But  as  life  wanes,  and  all  the  turbulent  pas 
sions  calm, 

As  gorgeous,  vapory,  silent  hues  cover  the 
evening  sky, 

As  softness,  fulness,  rest,  suffuse  the  frame 
like  fresher,  balmier  air, 

As  the  days  take  on  a  mellower  light, 

And  the  apple  at  last  hangs  really  fmish'd 
and  indolent-ripe  on  the  tree, 

Then  for  the  teeming  quietest,  happiest  days 
of  all, 

The  brooding  and  blissful  halcyon  days ! 

WALT  WHITMAN 


WALT   WHITMAN   IN 
MICKLE  STREET 

i 

MARY  OAKES  DAVIS 


"She  hath  wrought  a  good  work  on  me  .  .  .  This  also 
that  she  hath  done  shall  be  spoken  of  for  a  memorial 
of  for."— ST.  MARK  XIV:  6,  9. 

"Whitman  with  the  pen  was  one  man — Whitman  in 
private  life  was  another  man." — THOMAS  DONALDSON. 

SOMEONE  has  said:  UA  veil  of  silence, 
even  mystery,   seems  to  have  shut  out 
from  view  the  later  home  life  of  Walt  Whit 


man." 


There  is  no  reason  for  this,  but  if  it  be 
really  so,  the  veil  cannot  be  lifted  without 
revealing  in  a  true  light  the  good  woman 
—  Mary  Oakes  Davis  —  so  closely  con 
nected  with  the  poet's  later  years,  and  of 
whom  he  often  spoke  as  "my  housekeeper, 
nurse  and  friend." 

Mrs.  Davis's  life  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave  was  one  of  self-sacrifice  and  devotion 


2  WALT  WHITMAN 

to  others.  Her  first  clear  recollection  was  of 
a  blind  old  woman  to  whom  her  parents  had 
given  a  home.  In  speaking  of  this  she  said: 
"I  never  had  a  childhood,  nor  did  I  realize 
that  I  had  the  right  to  play  like  other  chil 
dren,  for  at  six  years  of  age  'Blind  Auntie' 
was  my  especial  charge.  On  waking  in  the 
morning  my  first  thought  was  of  her,  and 
then  I  felt  I  must  not  lie  in  bed  another 
minute.  I  arose  quickly,  made  my  own  toilet 
and  hastened  to  her."  She  continued  with  a 
detailed  account  of  the  attention  daily  given 
to  "Auntie,"  how  she  put  on  her  stockings 
and  shoes,  and  handed  her  each  article  of 
clothing  as  it  was  needed;  how  she  brought 
fresh  water  for  her  ablutions,  combed  her 
hair  and  made  her  presentable  for  the  table; 
how  at  all  meals  she  sat  by  her  side  to  wait 
upon  her,  and  how,  after  helping  her  mother 
with  the  dishes,  she  walked  up  and  down  the 
sidewalk  until  schooltime  to  give  "Auntie" 
her  exercise,  the  walks  being  repeated  when 
school  was  over. 

It  seems  strange  that  parents  could  per 
mit  such  sacrifice  for  an  outsider,  however 
helpless,  unmindful  of  their  injustice  toward 
the  little  daughter  who  so  willingly  and  un 
consciously  yielded  up  her  young  life.  No 
wonder  this  lesson  of  utter  devotion  to  an- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  3 

other,  so  early  implanted  in  the  tender  heart 
of  the  child,  should  in  after  years  become 
part  and  parcel  of  the  woman. 

When  Mary  was  twelve  years  of  age 
"Blind  Auntie"  died.  Then  came  two  more 
years  of  schooling,  after  which  the  girl  vol 
untarily  assumed  another  burden — the  care 
of  a  melancholy,  selfish  invalid,  a  distant  rel 
ative  living  in  the  country,  of  whom  she  had 
heard  much  from  time  to  time.  With  her 
she  stayed  for  six  years,  being  in  turn  nurse, 
companion,  housekeeper  or  general  servant, 
as  need  required. 

Poor  child,  she  failed  in  brightening  the 
invalid's  life — which  was  her  only  hope  in 
going  there.  All  her  efforts  were  unappre 
ciated  and  misunderstood,  and  it  was  a  hard 
task  to  follow  out  what  she  conceived  to  be 
her  duty.  During  the  first  four  years  her 
sole  remuneration  was  a  small  sum  of  money 
on  rare  occasions,  or  a  few  articles  of  cloth 
ing;  during  the  last  two,  a  modest  monthly 
salary.  The  entire  period  was  one  of  unre 
mitting  care  and  self-abnegation,  and  at  the 
age  of  twenty,  utterly  disheartened,  she  sum 
moned  up  resolution  to  leave. 

She  had  long  contemplated  paying  a  visit 
to  an  old  schoolmate  and  dear  friend,  Mrs. 
Fritzinger,  the  wife  of  a  sea-captain,  whose 


4  WALT  WHITMAN 

home  was  in  Camden,  New  Jersey,  and  to 
this  city  she  now  went.  Arriving,  to  her  great 
sorrow  she  found  her  friend  in  a  serious 
physical  condition,  and  remained  to  nurse  her 
through  a  protracted  illness,  which  ended 
fatally.  On  her  deathbed  Mrs.  Fritzinger 
confided  her  two  young  sons  to  Mary's  care, 
and  from  this  time  on  they  called  her  mother. 

Captain  Fritzinger  soon  became  blind  and 
had  to  give  up  the  sea.  He  still  however 
retained  marine  interests  in  Philadelphia,  to 
and  from  which  city  Mary  led  him  daily. 
Then  came  a  long  illness.  The  Captain  ap 
pointed  Mary  co-guardian  to  his  two  sons, 
and  at  his  death  divided  his  property  equally 
between  the  three. 

Captain  Davis,  a  friend  of  the  Fritzingers, 
had  met  Mary  during  Mrs.  Fritzinger's 
lifetime.  He  was  much  attracted  to  her, 
proposed  marriage  and  was  accepted  on  con 
dition  that  the  wedding  should  not  take  place 
as  long  as  her  friends  had  need  of  her.  But 
time  slipped  by;  it  may  be  Captain  Davis 
thought  their  need  of  her  would  never  end; 
so,  meeting  her  in  Philadelphia  one  morning, 
he  insisted  upon  their  going  to  a  minister's 
and  becoming  man  and  wife.  Mary,  thus 
forcefully  pressed,  consented,  but  exacted  the 
promise  that  he  would  not  tell  the  Frit- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  5 

zingers  until  his  return  from  the  trip  he  was 
on  the  eve  of  taking. 

In  a  few  days  he  left  Camden.  His  vessel 
was  wrecked  off  the  coast  of  Maine,  and  he 
was  buried  where  he  washed  ashore. 

His  hasty  marriage  and  unlooked-for 
death  prevented  him  from  making  the  in 
tended  provision  for  his  wife,  and  as  she 
shrank  from  any  contest  with  his  family, 
all  that  was  left  to  her  was  his  name  and 
the  cherished  memory  of  her  one  brief  love. 

During  Captain  Fritzinger's  nine  years  of 
blindness,  and  through  all  his  long  sickness, 
Mary's  ingrained  habit  of  devotion  to  one 
person  made  her  somewhat  forgetful  of 
others ;  and  dearly  as  she  loved  the  boys  who 
called  her  mother,  their  happiness  was  too 
often  sacrificed  to  their  father's  infirmities. 
Strange — and  yet  not  strange,  perhaps — that 
one  whose  childhood  had  been  an  unbroken 
martyrdom,  should  now  be  not  always  con 
scious  of  the  needs  of  a  new  generation. 

The  house  in  which  they  lived,  in  a  little 
street  running  at  right  angles  to  Stevens 
Street,  was  closed  at  dusk.  Then,  when  she 
had  read  the  daily  papers,  Mary  would  ex 
tinguish  the  lights,  feeling  that  to  read  to 
herself,  or  for  the  boys  to  play  games,  would 
be  selfish,  as  the  sick  man  was  deprived  of 


6  WALT  WHITMAN 

such  enjoyments.  It  didn't  occur  to  her  that 
these  wide-awake  youngsters  had  nothing  of 
her  own  childhood  spirit  of  resignation,  or 
that  the  noise  and  laughter  of  other  boys 
frolicking  in  the  streets  could  have  any  at 
traction  for  them.  They  were  sent  early  to 
bed,  but  time  and  again  made  their  escape 
through  the  window,  creeping  along  the  shed, 
and  so  to  the  fence  and  the  street. 

Both  boys  had  an  innate  love  for  the  sea, 
and  at  the  age  of  fourteen  and  sixteen  re 
spectively  had  become  so  restless  and  urgent 
for  a  change,  that  their  father  yielded  to  their 
wishes  and  procured  berths  for  them  aboard 
the  same  ship.  In  two  years  they  returned 
to  find  him  dead,  and  in  a  short  time  they 
embarked  again  in  separate  vessels  and  for 
longer  voyages. 

During  their  first  absence,  Captain  Frit- 
zinger  had  invited  another  ex-captain — an  old 
shipmate  and  intimate  friend — to  come  to 
his  house  to  board,  and  for  mutual  com 
panionship.  The  new  guest  was  in  poor  health 
and  extremely  crotchety,  and  immediately 
upon  his  host's  demise  he  took  possession 
of  the  bed  left  empty.  Then  ensued  for 
Mrs.  Davis  two  more  years  of  fidelity  and 
constant  care,  until  the  one  old  shipmate 
went  the  way  of  the  other. 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  7 

But  even  now  the  long-tried  woman  was 
not  left  without  someone  to  minister  to,  for 
shortly  before  a  young  orphan  girl  had  been 
entrusted  to  her.  It  was  certainly  her  destiny 
to  find  full  scope  for  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice 
so  early  implanted,  and  so  persistently  called 
upon.  But  it  was  almost  inevitable  for  such 
a  nature  to  be  unconscious  of  the  vein  of 
irony  in  human  affairs,  of  the  element  of  the 
grotesque  in  the  sublime.  She  went  quietly 
on  her  accustomed  way.  It  was  her  vocation 
to  be  victimized,  and  her  daily  business  to 
be  a  blessing  to  others. 

Such  was  the  woman  who  entered  so  close 
ly  into  Walt  Whitman's  life  during  the  seven 
years  spent  in  Mickle  Street.  She  meant 
more  to  him  than  he  was  perhaps  aware  of; 
more,  certainly,  than  he  ever  cared  to  admit. 
If  she  was  incapable  of  realizing  the  fulness 
of  his  genius,  he  seemed  unable  to  measure 
the  fulness  of  hers.  But  he  was  glad  to  profit 
by  it. 


II 

WALT  WHITMAN'S  HOME 

"And  whether  I  come  into   my  own  to-day  or  in  ten 

thousand  or   in   ten   million   years, 
I  can  cheerfully  take  it  now  or  with  equal  cheerfulness 

I  can  wait." — WALT  WHITMAN. 

"I  only  thought  if  I  didn't  go,  who  would?" 

— MARY  O.  DAVIS. 

AFTER  physical  disability  had  incapaci 
tated  him  for  duty,  Walt  Whitman 
went  to  Camden,  the  New  Jersey  suburb 
of  Philadelphia,  and  there  the  remaining 
years  of  his  life  were  spent,  at  first  in  his 
brother's  house  in  Stevens  Street  and  later 
in  a  little  frame  cottage,  No.  328  Mickle 
Street,  "where  he  lived  alone  with  a  single 
attendant,"  as  a  magazine  writer  phrased  it. 
This  attendant  was  Mary  Oakes  Davis. 

With  but  one  exception  (Thomas  Donald 
son,  in  "Walt  Whitman  the  Man"),  all  writ 
ers  who  have  touched  upon  Whitman's  do 
mestic  life  seem  to  have  failed  to  mention 
the  interval  between  his  two  Camden  homes. 
Fortunately  it  was  of  short  duration,  but  in 
it  came  the  great  turning  point  in  his  career. 
8 


WALT  WHITMAN  9 

Of  his  early  habits  something  may  be 
learned  from  his  brother  George,  who  says : 
"Walt  was  always  a  trying  person  to  live 
with."  ("In  Re  Walt  Whitman.")  Then 
he  goes  on  to  relate  some  of  the  poet's  pe 
culiarities,  irregularities  and  eccentricities. 
"He  had  an  idea  that  money  was  of  no  con 
sequence  .  .  .  He  would  lie  abed  late,  would 
write  a  few  hours  if  he  took  the  notion,  per 
haps  would  go  off  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 
If  we  had  dinner  at  one,  like  as  not  he  would 
come  at  three ;  always  late.  Just  as  we  were 
fixing  things  on  the  table  he  would  get  up  and 
go  around  the  block.  He  was  always  so. 

"He  would  come  to  breakfast  when  he 
got  ready.  If  he  wished  to  go  out,  he  would 
go,  go  where  he  was  a  mind  to,  and  come  back 
in  his  own  time." 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  a  person  with 
these  traits  of  character  would  be  an  uncom 
fortable  inmate  to  have  in  any  home,  and 
with  Mr.  Whitman  this  disregard  for  the 
convenience  of  others  grew  more  marked 
as  he  advanced  in  years  and  deteriorated  in 
body.  Notwithstanding  this,  when  his  good 
brother  and  his  most  excellent  sister-in-law 
retired  to  their  farm  in  Burlington,  New 
Jersey,  they  urged  him  to  accompany  them. 

Their  kind  offer  of  a  home  Mr.  Whitman 


io  WALT  WHITMAN 

thought  best  to  decline,  for  although  at  this 
time  he  had  but  a  restricted  popularity  as  an 
author,  he  had  some  staunch  friends  in  his 
own  city,  in  New  York,  Philadelphia  and 
abroad,  and  after  twelve  years'  residence  in 
one  locality  he  thought  it  unwise  to  change. 

No  doubt  he  did  not  take  into  considera 
tion  the  difficulties  he  would  have  to  en 
counter  alone,  nor  realize  how  unfitted  he 
was  to  cope  with  them;  but  as  usual  he  over 
ruled  all  opposition  and  followed  his  own 
inclination. 

Or  he  may  have  had  a  premonition  of  the 
popularity  just  at  hand. 

First  he  rented  a  room,  taking  his  meals 
at  odd  times  and  in  odd  places.  This  he 
soon  found  to  be  a  miserable  mode  of  exist 
ence,  for  he  was  crippled  financially  as  well 
as  physically,  and  even  to  this  late  day,  "his 
medium  of  circulating  his  views  to  the  world 
was  through  very  limited  editions,  which  he 
himself  usually  paid  for,  or  which  failed  to 
circulate  at  all."  (Thomas  Donaldson.) 

The  old  man  with  his  basket  of  literature 
upon  his  arm,  plodding  his  way  through  the 
streets  of  Camden  and  Philadelphia,  had  long 
been  a  familiar  sight,  and  now  with  slow  sales 
and  lack  of  former  comforts  it  was  doubly 
hard  on  him.  But  at  this  time  his  life  had 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  n 

settled  down  to  one  great  desire,  that  of  re 
writing  his  book,  Leaves  of  Grass,  and  living 
to  see  it  put  before  the  world  in  a  full,  im 
proved  and  complete  form. 

He  believed  it  was  to  be,  and  this  was  his 
principal  object  in  remaining  in  a  city  where 
he  had  already  suffered  the  delays  and  dis 
appointments  that  make  the  heart  sick  and 
wear  out  the  body.  Yet  dark  as  was  the  out 
look,  this  hope  buoyed  him  up,  and  after  the 
struggles  of  half  a  century  his  courage  had 
not  forsaken  him. 

"In  the  period  named,  he  was  hungry,  cold 
and  neglected,"  says  Donaldson;  and  again: 
"Whitman  was  extremely  poor  in  Camden 
after  his  brother  moved  away,  and  up  to 
about  1884.  His  change  of  luck  began  about 
then.  He  had  previously,  to  use  a  sailor's 
phrase,  'been  scudding  under  bare  poles.'  He 
had  several  runs  of  luck  after  1884." 

Walt  Whitman  and  Mrs.  Davis  were  not 
personally  acquainted.  To  be  sure,  he  had 
seen  her  innumerable  times  leading  Captain 
Fritzinger  past  his  brother's  house,  but  he 
had  never  spoken  to  her.  As  for  her,  the 
poor  old  man  had  long  been  a  secret  pen 
sioner  upon  her  tender  heart,  drawing  a  full 
bounty  of  pity  therefrom. 

Their   first  interview  took  place   on  one 


12  WALT  WHITMAN 

cold  frosty  morning,  when  in  deepest  dejec 
tion  he  came  a  suppliant  to  her  door.  Sur 
prised  as  she  was  to  find  him  there,  she 
warmly  invited  him  in,  and  a  good  break 
fast  soon  followed  the  kind  reception. 

With  his  writings  she  was  totally  unac 
quainted,  and  she  naturally  shared  the  uni 
versal  opinion  of  her  neighbors,  that  he  was 
"a  little  off."  Nevertheless,  when  from  the 
grateful  warmth  and  good  cheer  he  grew 
loquacious,  and  dilated  upon  his  work  and 
aired  his  lofty  hopes,  she  listened  attentively, 
that  he  might  not  suspect  that  to  her  all 
this  seemed  but  an  empty  dream  and  delusion. 

She  talked  encouragingly,  and  on  his  ris 
ing  to  go  cordially  invited  him  to  repeat  his 
visit.  He  did  so,  and  thenceforward  this 
compassionate  woman's  homely  kitchen  be 
came  his  one  haven  of  rest.  He  knew  that 
a  hot  meal  and  many  thoughtful  attentions 
always  awaited  him  there ;  attentions  such  as 
lacing  his  shoes,  washing  and  mending  his 
clothing,  and  not  infrequently  superintend 
ing  a  refreshing  foot-bath.  "Being  an  in 
valid  he  felt  his  helplessness,  so  attentions 
were  doubly  dear  to  him."  (Thomas  Don 
aldson.) 

As  the  fall  advanced  and  the  weather  grew 
severe,  his  bachelor  quarters  became  more 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  13 

and  more  unsuitable,  and  he  was  indeed  for 
tunate  in  the  friendship  he  had  so  auspiciously 
formed.  He  developed  into  a  daily  visitor, 
and  each  morning  might  have  been  seen  scuf 
fing  along  in  his  unclasped  antiquated  arctics, 
cane  in  hand,  and  his  long  white  hair  and 
beard  blowing  in  the  wind. 

Mrs.  Davis  said  that  the  very  sight  of 
those  ungainly  old  arctics  always  brought 
tears  to  her  eyes. 

During  this  winter  (1884-5),  through  the 
generosity  of  a  Philadelphian  (Mr.  George 
W.  Childs),  and  from  the  sale  of  his  book, 
Mr.  Whitman  was  in  a  way  to  arrange  for  a 
payment  upon  a  small  house.  He  was  not  the 
man  to  ask  advice,  and  the  selection  he  made 
was  not  a  wise  one.  "It  was  a  coop  at  best," 
as  Thomas  Donaldson  says,  and  a  much  more 
comfortable  home  in  a  far  more  suitable  loca 
tion  could  have  been  secured  for  less  than 
the  price  he  had  agreed  to  pay.  However, 
it  promised  him  a  regular  abiding  place. 

The  house  being  occupied  when  he  became 
the  owner,  he  made  an  arrangement  with  the 
tenants :  they  were  to  remain,  and  he  would 
come  there  to  live  with  them,  his  board  to 
offset  the  rent.  But  the  scheme  did  not  work, 
and  at  the  expiration  of  the  first  month  he 
was  left  solitary  and  alone  with  his  personal 


14  WALT  WHITMAN 

household  goods,  consisting  of  a  scantily  fur 
nished  bedstead,  a  home-made  table,  a  rickety 
chair  and  a  large  packing  box.  The  table 
served  as  writing  desk  and  the  packing  box 
as  kitchen  and  dining  table.  "Upon  it  was  a 
small  coal  oil  stove,  where  he  would  cook  a 
bite  at  the  risk  of  his  life."  (Thomas  Don- 
aldson.) 

His  daily  visits  to  Mrs.  Davis  were  re 
sumed.  Her  back  door  would  slowly  open 
and  he  would  appear  saying  in  a  pathetic 
voice:  "Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 
whose  trembling  limbs  have  brought  him  to 
your  door."  He  was  always  welcomed  and 
former  relations  were  renewed. 

This  continued  for  awhile,  but  light  house 
keeping  being  so  great  a  tax  upon  him,  and 
his  house  being  so  "forlorn,  dirty  and  un 
tenantable,"  (Thomas  Donaldson),  Mrs. 
Davis  went  there  with  him  in  his  perplexity. 

How  could  the  place  be  anything  but  cold 
when  it  was  heated  only  by  the  occasional 
flame  of  an  oil  lamp?  Worse  still,  the  back 
door  was  held  partly  open  by  an  accumula 
tion  of  ice  resulting  from  a  ruptured  water 
pipe. 

Seeing  how  matters  stood,  Mrs.  Davis,  at 
that  time  a  "strong,  rosy-cheeked  Jersey 
woman"  (Thomas  Donaldson),  went  to 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  15 

work  with  a  will,  and  the  ice  was  rapidly 
dispersed  by  her  vigorously  wielded  axe. 
With  the  door  closed  things  soon  assumed  a 
more  cheerful  aspect,  and  at  her  suggestion 
Mr.  Whitman  purchased  a  small  second-hand 
cooking  stove,  which,  unassisted,  she  set  up 
and  got  into  running  order.  She  carpeted 
his  sleeping  room,  gave  him  a  mattress  and 
bedding,  and  in  many  other  ways  helped  to 
make  "the  coop,"  as  Whitman  himself  called 
it,  more  habitable  and  homelike.  Then,  un 
mindful  of  the  distance — several  blocks — she 
came  each  evening  to  attend  to  the  fire,  cook 
the  food,  run  the  invalid's  errands  and  wait 
upon  him  generally. 

In  speaking  of  this  time  she  said:  "When 
the  poor  old  man  was  not  in  sight,  he  was  so 
much  upon  my  mind  I  could  not  pass  one 
peaceful  hour."  Suffice  it  to  say,  Walt  Whit 
man  had  become  the  next  object  of  her  solici 
tude. 

He  has  been  called  a  prophet.  Was  it 
prophetical  when,  some  years  before,  he 
wrote :  "Though  poor  now  even  to  penury,  I 
have  not  been  deprived  of  any  physical  thing 
I  need  or  wish  for  whatever,  and  I  feel  con 
fident  I  shall  not  in  the  future"  ? 

Some  have  considered  him  a  cunning  man; 
all  agree  that  he  was  a  remarkable  judge  of 


1 6  WALT  WHITMAN 

character.  Understanding  this  woman  as  he 
did, —  as  he  must  have  done, —  had  he  re 
solved  to  have  her  devote  herself  to  him? 
This  question  can  never  be  truthfully  an 
swered,  but  whether  with  premeditation  or 
not,  he  certainly  had  gained  a  great  influence 
over  her. 

Although  comparatively  comfortable  in  his 
new  home  now,  he  did  not  discontinue  his  ac 
customed  morning  visits,  and  as  he  persisted 
in  his  old  delinquencies  he  completely  up 
set  the  routine  of  Mrs.  Davis's  daily  life 
and  work. 

Things  ran  on  in  this  way  until  one  morn 
ing  late  in  February,  while  he  was  sipping 
his  coffee,  he  told  her  he  had  a  proposition 
to  make.  He  said:  "I  have  a  house  while 
you  pay  rent;  you  have  furniture  while  my 
rooms  are  bare;  I  propose  that  you  come 
and  live  with  me,  bringing  your  furniture  for 
the  use  of  both."  A  suggestion  of  this  kind 
was  so  unlocked  for  that  she  refused  to  give 
it  a  moment's  consideration.  He  said  no 
more  at  the  time,  but  a  few  days  later  again 
broached  the  subject.  And  this  he  continued 
to  do  daily  until  Mrs.  Davis,  who  remained 
firm  for  awhile,  at  last  began  to  waver. 

The  young  orphan  girl  strongly  opposed 
such  a  step,  but  Mr.  Whitman's  persistence 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  17 

prevailed,  for  Mrs.  Davis  at  last  gave  a  re 
luctant  consent.  The  advantage  was  all  on 
the  poet's  side,  as  he  must  have  seen,  but  re 
cent  events  had  raised  his  hopes  and  he  made 
promises  of  adequate  and  more  than  ade 
quate  returns  for  all  that  had  been  done  or 
might  be  done  for  him. 

As  his  money  was  "only  in  sight,"  to  use 
his  own  words,  the  expenses  of  moving  were 
paid  by  Mrs.  Davis;  as  he  was  disabled,  the 
work  and  worry  were  hers  as  well;  but  finally 
all  was  accomplished,  her  goods  were  trans 
ferred  to  his  house  and  put  in  their  new 
places,  and  the  seven  years  of  their  domestic 
life  together  commenced.  In  this  way  did 
the  ugood  gray  poet"  retire  with  his  "single 
attendant"  to  the  little  frame  cottage,  No. 
328  Mickle  Street,  Camden,  New  Jersey. 


Ill 

THE  MICKLE  STREET  HOUSE 

"The   tide   turned  when   he   entered  the  Mickle  Street 
house." — THOMAS  DONALDSON. 

"Whitman  had  great  satisfaction  in  the  managing  skill 
of  his  housekeeper." — SIDNEY  MORSE. 

ADDED  to  "managing  skill,"  Mrs. 
Davis  had  patience,  perseverance,  de 
termination,  courage  and  health;  further 
more — having  accompanied  the  Fritzinger 
family  upon  a  number  of  ocean  trips,  un 
dertaken  in  the  hope  of  benefiting  Mrs. 
Fritzinger — she  had  shipboard  experience 
which  enabled  her  to  make  available  every 
inch  of  space  in  a  house  smaller  than  the 
one  she  had  left.  It  was  an  unpretentious 
brown  frame  structure,  sadly  out  of  repair, 
and  decidedly  the  poorest  tenement  in  the 
block.  On  the  right  was  a  brick  house  whose 
strong  walls  seemed  to  be  holding  it  up,  while 
on  the  left  was  an  alley — scarcely  more 
than  a  gutter — closed  from  the  street  by  a 
wooden  door. 

This  narrow  passage,  filled  with  ice  and 
18 


WALT  WHITMAN  19 

snow  in  the  winter,  often  damp  and  slippery 
even  in  warm  weather,  was  unfit  for  general 
use;  and  as  the  house  was  not  properly 
drained,  the  cellar  through  its  one  little  win 
dow  was  often  flooded  from  dripping  eaves. 

Three  wooden  steps  without  a  banister 
led  from  the  sidewalk  to  the  front  door, 
which  had  to  be  closed  to  allow  those  who 
entered  to  ascend  the  stairs.  This  narrow 
staircase,  an  equally  narrow  hall  and  two 
connecting  rooms  called  "the  parlors"  com 
prised  the  first  floor  of  the  main  building. 
Between  the  parlors  were  folding  doors,  and 
each  room  had  an  exit  into  the  hall.  There 
were  two  windows  in  the  front  parlor  and 
a  single  one  in  the  back.  Between  and  un 
der  the  front  windows  was  an  entrance  to 
the  cellar,  with  old-fashioned  slanting  doors. 

The  rear  and  smaller  portion  of  the  house 
was  divided  into  but  two  apartments,  the 
kitchen  below  and  a  sleeping  room  above. 
At  the  back  of  the  kitchen  was  a  small  shed, 
and  quite  a  large  yard.  Some  people  be 
lieved  that  this  yard,  with  its  pear  tree  and 
grape  vine,  had  been  the  main  attraction  of 
the  place  for  Mr.  Whitman. 

On  ascending  the  staircase,  a  small  land 
ing  and  the  back  sleeping  room  were 
reached;  then,  turning  about,  came  more 


20  WALT  WHITMAN 

stairs,  with  a  larger  landing,  part  of  which 
had  been  made  into  a  clothespress.  Apart 
from  this  landing  and  a  little  den,  sometimes 
known  as  "the  anteroom,"  the  upper  portion 
of  the  main  building  had  only  one  room. 
But  the  two  doors  in  it,  and  a  deep  rugged 
scar  across  the  low  ceiling,  testified  to  its 
having  formerly  been  divided  by  a  partition. 
As  one  of  the  doors  was  permanently  fast 
ened,  the  only  access  was  through  the  den, 
anteroom,  or  "adjoining  apartment,"  as  it 
was  also  occasionally  called. 

In  the  larger  room  was  a  fireplace  with  a 
mantel  shelf  above.  There  were  two  win 
dows  corresponding  with  the  windows  below, 
while  the  smaller  room  or  den,  reduced  to 
one-half  its  proper  width  by  some  pine 
shelves  and  an  outjutting  chimney,  had  like 
the  room  below  but  one.  The  outlook  from 
this  window,  into  which  the  sun  made  but  a 
few  annual  peeps,  was  the  brick  wall  on  one 
side,  the  back  roof  on  the  other,  and  a 
glimpse  of  the  sky. 

The  situation  of  the  house  was  anything 
but  inviting,  and  the  locality  was  one  that 
few  would  choose  to  live  in.  It  was  near 
both  depot  and  ferry,  and  as  the  tracks  were 
but  a  block  away,  or  scarcely  that,  being 
laid  in  what  would  have  been  the  centre  of 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  21 

the  next  street,  there  was  an  uninterrupted 
racket  day  and  night.  The  noise  of  the  pas 
senger  and  excursion  trains — for  the  excur 
sions  to  the  coast  went  by  way  of  Camden 
— was  only  a  minor  circumstance  compared 
with  that  of  the  freight  trains  as  they  thun 
dered  by,  or  passed  and  re-passed  in  making 
up. 

Close  at  hand  was  a  church  with  a  sharp- 
toned  bell,  and  a  "choir  of  most  nerve-un 
settling  singers"  (Thomas  Donaldson)  ;  and 
as  if  this  were  not  enough,  there  was  at 
times  a  most  disagreeable  odor  from  a  guano 
factory  on  the  Philadelphia  side  of  the  Dela 
ware. 

Such  was  the  house  to  which  Mary  Davis 
had  now  come,  and  where  through  the 
strange,  busy  days  of  the  next  seven  years 
she  was  destined  to  be  Walt  Whitman's  in 
dispensable  "housekeeper,  nurse  and  friend" 
— or,  from  the  outsider's  point  of  view,  his 
"single  attendant." 

The  spring  of  1885  was  far  advanced  be 
fore  things  were  fairly  in  running  order,  for 
from  the  first  there  had  been  no  intermission 
in  the  poet's  erratic  mode  of  living,  and 
Mrs.  Davis  had  been  obliged  to  devote  much 
time  to  his  personal  wants.  Somehow  he 


22  WALT  WHITMAN 

had  a  way  of  demanding  attention  which  she 
found  it  impossible  to  resist. 

Truly  she  had  been  hampered  on  all  sides, 
this  faithful  Martha-Mary;  so  many  things 
to  be  seen  to,  so  many  things  to  handle  and 
rehandle  and  change  about  before  an  estab 
lished  place  for  them  could  be  found;  the 
strenuous  cleaning,  for  the  former  tenants 
had  left  the  place  extremely  dirty;  and  the 
pondering  over  repairs,  and  deciding  which 
were  absolutely  essential  and  unpostponable, 
and  which  could  be  put  off  for  a  little  while 
longer. 

She  first  carpeted,  furnished  and  settled 
the  parlors,  intending  the  back  one  as  the 
sleeping  room  for  her  young  charge,  until 
her  marriage  in  the  fall,  when  it  could  be 
used  as  a  spare  room.  But  Mr.  Whitman 
had  different  intentions,  for  he  at  once  ap 
propriated  both  rooms,  and  would  not  allow 
the  doors  separating  them  to  be  closed. 

One  of  the  front  windows  became  his  fa 
vorite  sitting  place,  and  here  he  wrote,  read 
his  papers  and  sat  while  entertaining  his 
friends.  He  was  delighted  with  these  rooms, 
and  in  them  he  enjoyed  himself  to  his  heart's 
content:  first  in  getting  things  into  disorder 
at  once,  and  then  in  keeping  them  so. 

The   back   room,   which   became   kitchen, 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  23 

dining  room  and  sitting  room  combined,  was 
so  compactly  filled  that  many  people  re 
marked  its  close  resemblance  to  the  cabin 
of  a  ship,  in  the  way  of  convenience  as  com 
pared  with  space.  It  was  lighted  by  one  win 
dow,  and  over  the  ingrain  carpet  a  strip  of 
stair  carpeting  made  a  pathway  from  the 
hall  to  the  outer  door. 

On  the  sitting  room  side  were  a  lounge, 
sewing  machine,  two  rocking  chairs,  a  stand 
and  some  small  pieces  of  furniture;  on  the 
other  was  a  dining  table  against  the  wall, 
one  leaf  extended  and  always  set,  with  the 
dining  chairs  pushed  under  it  when  not  in 
use;  the  range — a  veritable  giant — standing 
in  place  of  the  dwarf  it  had  ousted;  a  sink 
with  cubby-hole  below,  crowded  to  overflow 
ing  with  pots  and  kettles,  and  shelves  above 
loaded  with  dishes  while  their  enclosing 
doors  were  closely  hung  with  kitchen  uten 
sils.  As  the  lower  shelf  only  could  be 
reached  by  hand,  a  stool  (a  chair  that  had 
lost  its  back)  was  kept  under  a  projection  of 
the  range. 

The  shed,  where  Mr.  Whitman's  stove 
was  set  up,  was  packed  with  household  goods 
and  chattels,  classified  and  stored  ready  for 
momentary  use,  and  around  the  walls  were 
suspended  the  extra  chairs. 


24  WALT  WHITMAN 

A  shelf  in  the  inside  cellarway  off  the  hall 
was  the  only  pantry,  and  the  sides  of  the 
cellarway  the  only  tin-cupboard;  then  for 
want  of  a  place  for  the  flour  barrel,  it  was 
left  standing  opposite  the  cellar  door  in  the 
hall.  In  this  part  of  the  house  people  went 
by  feeling,  not  by  sight,  and  strangers  as  a 
rule  always  collided  with  the  barrel  before 
entering  the  kitchen. 

The  little  passage  between  the  back  part 
of  the  house  and  the  wall  of  the  one  ad 
joining  it — simply  a  pathway  to  the  back 
entrance  of  the  cellar — Mrs.  Davis  canopied 
with  old  sails  and  utilized  as  a  laundry.  Here 
she  kept  her  washing  bench,  tubs  and  pails, 
and  here  she  washed  and  ironed  when  the 
weather  permitted.  This  furnished  the  view 
from  the  back  parlor  window. 

The  cellar  and  its  hanging  shelf  had  their 
share  of  plunder,  and  here  the  firewood  was 
sawed  and  split. 

As  for  pictures,  there  were  more  than 
enough  for  all  the  rooms,  and  between  them 
wall  pockets,  paper  racks  and  brackets 
abounded. 

Her  family  of  birds — a  robin  she  had 
rescued  from  a  cat,  a  pair  of  turtle  doves 
and  a  canary — she  attached  to  the  kitchen 
ceiling.  She  made  a  little  place  in  the  shed 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  25 

for  her  cat's  bed,  and  found  a  shelter  for  a 
few  hens  in  the  small  outhouse.  Her  dog, 
more  aristocratic,  slept  on  the  lounge. 

On  a  shelf  over  the  dining  table  were  a 
clock,  some  china  vases,  and  a  stuffed  par- 
rakeet.  No  wonder  that  upon  entering  the 
house  the  first  thing  observed  was  the  over 
filled  appearance  of  each  small  room. 

Upon  a  bracket  in  the  front  parlor  she 
placed  a  model  of  a  ship  that  had  been  given 
to  Captain  Fritzinger  by  the  maker.  This 
pleased  Mr.  Whitman  exceedingly,  for  he 
had  often  noticed  and  admired  it.  He  said 
that  the  first  time  he  had  desired  to  write 
anything  was  when  he  saw  a  ship  in  full  sail. 
He  tried  to  describe  it  exactly  and  failed; 
had  often  since  studied  ships  in  the  vain  hope 
of  getting  the  whole  beautiful  story  into 
words,  but  had  never  been  able  to  do  so. 

The  mantels  of  both  parlors  Mrs.  Davis 
heaped  with  shells  and  curiosities  from  dis 
tant  parts  of  the  world.  Some  of  them 
were  rare  and  valuable. 

Such  was  the  inside  of  the  house  after  it 
had  passed  through  Mary's  transforming 
hands.  There  were  many  things  in  it  that 
might  have  been  better  elsewhere,  perhaps. 
But  where?  It  was  only  a  little  house,  and 
Mary  had  come  to  it  from  a  larger  one,  with 


26  WALT  WHITMAN 

all  her  possessions.  She  had  nowhere  else 
to  put  them  now,  without  losing  them.  If 
Mr.  Whitman  had  any  sense  of  being  over 
crowded,  it  was  his  own  fault.  She  had  come 
at  his  urging — and  he  had  taken  the  two 
large  parlors  on  the  first  floor,  and  the  large 
front  chamber  with  the  anteroom  above,  en 
tirely  for  his  own  use,  thus  leaving  for  the 
two  women  the  kitchen  (which  he  shared 
with  them  in  its  aspect  of  dining  room)  and 
the  only  remaining  room  in  the  house — the 
little  back  chamber  on  the  second  floor.  In 
to  this,  they  condensed  and  squeezed  their 
more  personal  belongings. 


IV 
THE  NEW  REGIME 

"I  know  an  old  story.  It  goes  back  to  1826,  when  a 
monument  to  Bellman,  the  Swedish  poet,  was  unveiled  in 
Stockholm.  The  King  and  Queen  were  there,  and  Bell 
man's  old  wife.  And  the  King  spoke  of  the  dead  poet, 
and  praised  him  in  a  flight  of  purple  phrases;  but  the 
old  wife  said,  'Oh  yes,  but  if  your  Majesty  only  knew 
what  a  nuisance  he  was  about  the  house  .  .  .'  But 
frankly,  wouldn't  you  like  to  know  what  kind  of  a 
nuisance  the  poet  was  at  home?" — VANCE  THOMPSON. 

DISCOVERING  so  quickly  that  her  new 
charge  was  decidedly  a  self-centered 
person,  and  seeing  that  waiting  upon  him 
promised  to  be  her  chief  occupation,  Mrs. 
Davis  planned  her  work  accordingly,  and  be 
ing  an  early  riser  was  able  to  devote  the  un 
trammelled  morning  hours  to  preparations 
for  the  day. 

Mr.  Whitman  usually  arose  at  nine  o'clock, 
but  in  this,  as  in  all  things,  he  consulted  his 
own  wishes  alone.  His  breakfast  hour  was 
any  time  during  the  forenoon ;  and  no  doubt 
he  did  not  understand  how  or  why  this 
could  discommode  his  new  housekeeper. 

When  the  signal  came — one  that  Mrs. 
27 


28  WALT  WHITMAN 

Davis  soon  learned,  three  or  four  loud  per 
emptory  raps  upon  the  floor  above — she 
dropped  whatever  she  might  be  doing  and 
hastened  upstairs. 

Since  Mr.  Whitman's  first  stroke  of 
paralysis,  nearly  twenty  years  before,  he  had 
become  so  disabled  that  he  required  much 
assistance  while  dressing,  and  for  this  he 
was  not  at  all  diffident  in  asking.  Besides, 
he  was  "very  curiously  deliberate." 

There  being  no  water  on  the  second  floor, 
Mrs.  Davis  carried  up  and  down  all  that  he 
needed  for  his  baths, — and  he  used  water 
freely.  Then  when  fully  dressed  he  con 
sulted  his  own  feelings  in  regard  to  coming 
downstairs. 

In  his  mother's  house  in  Long  Island,  and 
in  his  brother's  in  Camden,  Walt  had  seldom 
taken  his  meals  with  the  family.  While  liv 
ing  in  Brooklyn,  New  Orleans  and  Wash 
ington,  his  meal  times  were  of  no  importance 
to  anyone  except  himself,  and  he  could  not 
see  why  this  rule  should  not  apply  to  his  own 
house,  or  any  house  where  he  might  be  stay 
ing.  To  him  regular  meals  were  a  bondage 
he  could  not  endure. 

Going  up  and  down  stairs  was  a  difficult 
task,  and  after  coming  to  the  Mickle  Street 
house  he  seldom  did  so  unaided,  so  the  old 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  29 

signal  was  repeated  when  he  was  ready  to 
descend,  and  again  Mrs.  Davis  hastened  to 
him. 

As  he  never  would  tell  what  he  wanted 
until  he  was  seated  at  the  table,  she  always 
kept  a  supply  of  special  things  on  hand; 
nothing  elaborate, — maybe  steak,  chops,  oys 
ters  or  eggs.  He  never  found  fault  with 
his  food,  and  although  he  did  not  often  com 
mend  it  he  must  have  been  fully  appreciative, 
for  all  through  his  letters  and  conversations, 
as  given  in  the  various  books  about  him,  are 
allusions  to  Mary's  good  cooking. 

Occasionally,  to  suit  her  own  convenience, 
she  would  have  his  breakfast  prepared;  but 
if  she  mentioned  this  fact  while  helping  him 
to  dress  he  would  invariably  say,  "Ah !  I 
will  not  eat  anything  for  awhile."  When  the 
dishes  had  been  set  aside  to  be  kept  warm, 
and  Mary  was  again  busily  engaged, — the 
wash  perhaps  partly  hung  on  the  line,  or 
her  deft  hands  in  the  dough, — the  peremp 
tory  signal  would  come,  and  on  being  helped 
down  and  seated  at  the  table  he  would  coolly 
demand  something  entirely  different  from 
what  she  had  provided. 

He  commenced  housekeeping  by  inviting 
company — lord  or  beggar — to  dine  with  him, 
and  would  keep  these  guests  at  the  table  for 


30  WALT  WHITMAN 

hours;  even  "when  he  was  eating  off  a  dry 
goods  box  for  a  table,  and  drinking  milk 
warmed  over  a  coal  oil  lamp,  and  a  few 
crackers  with  it,  he  would  ask  you  to  dine, 
with  the  dignity  of  a  prince,  and  never  apolo 
gize  or  mention  the  food."  (Thomas  Don 
aldson.) 

A  biographer  (Horace  Traubel)  says, 
"He  was  very  simple  in  his  tastes,  taking 
only  two  meals  in  a  day."  True ;  but  the 
day  was  nearly  consumed  in  getting  and 
serving  these  two  meals,  with  the  after  work 
that  followed.  To  Mrs.  Davis's  surprise 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  entertain  visitors  in 
his  sleeping  room  if  they  arrived  while  he 
was  there,  and  many  of  them  would  remain 
until  "the  wee  sma'  hours."  There  was  a 
charm  in  fellowship  with  him,  and  ill  and 
lethargic  as  he  had  grown,  it  was  said: 
"Walt  Whitman's  friends  rarely  visited  him 
without  having  a  good  laugh  over  some 
thing  or  other";  and  "gifted  with  a  clear 
resonant  voice,  the  poet  often  gratifies  his 
friends  as  he  sits  by  a  blazing  wood  fire — 
which  is  his  delight — singing  old-fashioned 
songs." 

It  was  this  irregularity  that  had  worn 
upon  his  sister-in-law,  for  during  the  years 
in  which  she  had  endured  Walt's  thought- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  31 

lessness,  she  had  had  the  care  of  Edward, 
the  irresponsible,  feeble-minded  brother;  and 
when,  by  the  doctor's  advice,  she  left  Cam- 
den  for  the  country,  the  home  was  tendered 
to  Walt  with  this  option :  he  was  to  conform 
to  their  way  of  living  and  cease  turning  night 
into  day. 

He  did  indeed  have  aruns  of  luck"  after 
1884,  and  who  can  deny  that  the  greatest  of 
these  was  in  securing  the  undivided  attention 
of  a  warm-hearted,  unselfish  woman,  and  in 
her  making  it  possible  for  him  to  live  un 
trammelled,  in  his  own  home?  Surely  the 
tide  turned  when  this  good  woman  ceased 
to  be  an  independent  being  and  became  the 
strong  prop  on  which  he  leaned;  a  shield 
between  him  and  all  annoyances. 

While  perplexed  with  settling  the  house, 
and  having  no  time  to  go  over  the  same 
ground  twice,  although  the  condition  of  the 
parlors  troubled  her  Mrs.  Davis  had  let 
them  go,  awaiting  a  favorable  time  to  clean 
and  regulate  them  thoroughly.  This  oppor 
tunity  came  in  the  summer,  during  the  first 
of  Mr.  Whitman's  temporary  absences. 

Since  he  had  been  in  his  own  house,  old 
friends  had  occasionally  called  to  take  him 
to  spend  the  day  with  them.  This  time  he 
was  asked  to  remain  a  week.  He  gladly 


32  WALT  WHITMAN 

availed  himself  of  the  change,  and  his  house 
keeper  was  no  less  pleased  to  have  a  week 
to  herself.  In  it  she  did  her  best  to  restore 
order,  and  when  she  had  finished  was  really 
proud  of  the  improvement  she  had  effected. 

Mr.  Whitman  returned.  He  at  once  dis 
covered  what  had  taken  place  during  his 
absence,  and  his  consternation  knew  no 
bounds !  He  said  that  he  had  left  every 
thing  exactly  as  he  wished  it  to  remain; 
where  he  could  find  it;  now  the  very  things 
he  needed  most  were  gone;  in  fact  he  could 
find  nothing  he  wanted,  and  in  the  future  he 
forbade  anyone  to  meddle  with  his  private 
property;  he  desired  and  expected  to  find — 
at  all  times  and  upon  all  occasions — his  per 
sonal  matters  unmolested,  undisturbed,  left 
entirely  alone. 

Mrs.  Davis  mildly  replied  that  she  had 
only  taken  from  the  room  some  useless  pa 
pers,  scraps  of  letters,  old  envelopes,  bits 
of  twine  and  wrapping  paper. 

He  declared  that  these  were  the  very 
things  he  needed  most;  the  ones  he  specially 
missed. 

She  remonstrated,  but  to  no  purpose;  he 
silenced  her;  just  how,  she  could  not  com 
prehend. 

To  Walt  Whitman's  credit  be  it  said,  he 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  33 

never  spoke  an  unkind  word  to  Mrs.  Davis; 
never  was  arrogant  or  overbearing  to  her; 
never  belittled  her  or  put  her  down  before 
others;  always  treated  her  as  an  equal;  re 
lied  upon  her  judgment  and  often  sought 
her  advice ; — but  he  would  have  his  own 
way,  and  she  with  her  yielding  nature  soon 
gave  in;  the  struggle  was  only  a  short  one; 
before  winter  commenced,  confusion  once 
more  reigned. 

In  due  time  piles  of  periodicals  were 
stacked  on  the  table  and  on  chairs;  news 
papers,  letters,  envelopes  and  bundles  of 
manuscript  were  in  the  corners;  and  as  he 
had  immediately  set  about  the  work  he  had 
so  greatly  at  heart,  cuttings,  rejected  scraps 
of  paper  and  general  litter  soon  covered 
the  floor,  the  confusion  gradually  making  its 
way  into  the  next  room  and  threatening  to 
invade  the  hall. 

The  front  parlor  became  a  veritable  edi 
tor's  sanctum;  nothing  but  the  smell  of  print 
er's  ink  and  the  sound  of  the  press  were 
wanting. 

Some  of  his  poems  he  altered  and  revised 
again  and  again,  and  in  a  short  time  the 
large  waste  basket  Mary  had  placed  in  the 
room  was  filled  to  overflowing.  As  he  would 
not  allow  her  to  remove  or  empty  the  basket, 


34  WALT  WHITMAN 

it  became  the  foundation  of  a  hillock  of 
debris.  Sometimes  when  he  seemed  off- 
guard  she  would  surreptitiously  remove  a 
few  dust  pans  full,  but  he  was  not  deceived, 
and  even  this  she  had  to  discontinue. 

The  first  summer  and  fall  in  his  own  house 
were  decidedly  pleasant  and  beneficial  to  Mr. 
Whitman.  He  worked  as  he  felt  able  or 
inclined;  was  encouraged  with  the  progress 
he  was  making,  and  gratified  with  the  pros 
pect  before  him.  He  believed,  and  must 
have  seen,  that  situated  so  advantageously 
the  one  desire  of  his  life  was  to  be  consum 
mated,  and  that  even  though  it  were  to  be 
accomplished  in  a  slow  way,  he  would  live 
to  see  his  book  completed  and  in  a  form 
to  meet  his  most  sanguine  wishes. 

Visitors  retarded  his  work,  but  this  was 
no  real  detriment,  nor  did  he  feel  the  time 
lost  that  he  spent  in  returning  visits.  Mak 
ing  over  the  old  material  and  adding  to  it 
the  poems  he  had  composed  since  the  issue 
of  the  last  edition,  was  something  he  could 
lay  down  and  take  up  at  any  time.  And  he 
certainly  did  enjoy  agreeable  company,  de 
lighting  whole-heartedly  in  their  companion 
ship  as  he  dispensed  the  hospitality  of  his 
own  board. 

By  degrees  Mrs.  Davis  accustomed  her- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  35 

self  to  her  new  surroundings  and  was  no 
longer  astonished  at  any  of  Walt's  remark 
able  ways  or  unreasonable  requests;  besides, 
she  remembered  that  the  step  she  had  taken 
was  after  all  self-imposed,  that  all  her 
friends  had  protested,  and  that  it  was  now 
irrevocable;  so  with  good  sense  and  in  good 
time  she  became,  if  not  fully  reconciled,  at 
least  resigned.  She  didn't  exactly  regret 
coming  to  Mickle  Street,  but  she  could  judge 
from  the  few  months  she  had  passed  there 
what  the  years  to  come  might  bring;  yet 
even  with  this  outlook  she  resolved  not  to 
shrink  from  but  bravely  to  face  the  future, 
whatever  might  betide ;  and  so  unconsciously 
she  transferred  to  Walt  Whitman  the  devo 
tion  she  had  given  to  others. 

She  seldom  left  the  house  when  he  was 
there  alone,  for  with  that  enigmatical  in 
stinct  chronic  patients  develop  he  knew,  and 
always  wanted  something,  whenever  she  was 
busiest  or  on  a  momentary  absence.  There 
fore  after  awhile  she  put  all  other  considera 
tions  aside,  and  gave  her  full  energies  to  the 
work  she  had  undertaken;  individual  wishes 
were  surrendered  as  she  strove  to  adjust  her 
ways  to  the  erratic  ones  of  the  old  man; 
familiar  customs  were  discarded  and  former 
friends  neglected.  She  seemed  almost  to 


36  WALT  WHITMAN 

lose  her  personality  and  to  become  a  part  of 
the  house  and  the  peculiar  life  lived  there. 

She  was  never  obtrusive,  and  did  all 
things  in  a  quiet  manner.  If  company  lin 
gered  until  midnight  she  remained  up  to  as 
sist  her  charge  to  bed;  she  humored  his  vag 
aries,  and  always  had  a  smile  and  a  pleasant 
word  for  him.  When  he  was  inclined  to  be 
despondent,  she  cheered  him;  when  he  was 
in  pain,  she  had  some  simple  remedy  at 
hand;  when  he  was  in  danger  of  overtaxing 
his  strength,  she  gently  cautioned  him;  and 
if  the  disorder  of  his  rooms  troubled  her, 
she  did  not  let  him  guess  how  much. 

At  first  she  supposed  he  was  not  in  a 
position  to  purchase  new  clothing,  and  did 
her  best  to  make  him  presentable  in  what 
he  had,  while  she  patiently  awaited  the  time 
when  the  expected  money  should  come  in; 
and  through  her  efficiency  in  washing,  darn 
ing,  patching  and  mending  he  soon  presented 
a  much  improved  appearance,  often  com 
mented  on. 

His  brother,  his  good  sister-in-law,  his 
other  relatives  and  all  his  friends  rested  in 
peace.  They  knew  the  hands  he  was  in,  the 
shoulders  upon  which  the  burden  had  fallen. 


V 
CURIOUS  NEIGHBORS 

"Mr.  Whitman  and  his  housekeeper  were  closely 
watched  by  some  curious  people  who  had  never  lived  near 
a  poet  before.  In  addition  they  minded  their  own  busi 
ness.  That  Camden  should  contain  two  such  people  in 
one  street  was  enough  to  create  wonder." 

— THOMAS  DONALDSON. 

THE  inhabitants  not  only  of  Mickle 
Street,  but  of  contiguous  ones,  were 
deeply  interested  in  the  strange  couple  who 
had  come  to  live  among  them,  and  kept  a 
close  watch  upon  every  movement.  Their 
vigilance  troubled  Mrs.  Davis,  for  she  could 
see  no  reason  why  anyone  should  be  curious 
about  them.  It  was  different  with  Mr.  Whit 
man,  who  never  saw  anything  he  did  not 
choose  to.  "I  don't  think  a  man  ever  existed 
so  entirely  indifferent  to  criticism  and 
slander."  (Sidney  Morse.} 

If  Mrs.  Davis  chanced  to  go  to  her  front 
door,  half  a  dozen  women  would  appear  at 
theirs;  if  she  swept  her  sidewalk,  her  broom 
seemed  to  set  in  motion  half  a  dozen  others. 
If  she  left  her  house  for  five  minutes  or  re- 
37 


38  WALT  WHITMAN 

mained  away  for  hours,  she  would  find  sen 
tinels  awaiting  her  return.  Sometimes  as 
she  was  approaching  home  she  would  hear  a 
shrill  childish  voice  call  out:  "Mama!  Ma 
ma!  here  she  comes!"  Or  she  would  see  a 
young  urchin — presumably  on  guard — 
scamper  into  the  house  to  give  the  alarm. 

"They  seemed  always  upon  the  alert,  and 
saw  to  it  that  whatever  went  into  Mr.  Whit 
man's  house  should  have  an  eye  escort  in  and 
an  eye  escort  out."  (Thomas  Donaldson.} 

From  behind  curtains,  shutters  and  blinds 
Mrs.  Davis  could  see  and  instinctively  feel 
eyes  fastened  upon  her,  and  what  appeared 
especially  remarkable  was  that  this  intrusive 
neighborly  interest  failed  to  die  out  or  les 
sen  with  time.  It  was  a  matter  of  genuine 
personal  curiosity,  keen  and  continuing,  and 
not  of  the  transient  attention  any  newcomer 
might  awaken. 

Unquestionably  there  was  an  atmosphere 
of  perplexity  and  perhaps  suspicion  in  the 
locality.  For  one  thing,  extravagant  and  im 
possible  as  it  may  seem,  it  had  been  rumored 
about  that  some  people  who  entered  "The 
Poet's"  house  never  came  out  again.  A  fre 
quent  caller  during  Mr.  Whitman's  first 
years  of  housekeeping  says : 

"Opposite,   as  I  slid  into  the  house  one 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  39 

day,  sat  a  bundle  of  dirt  with  bread  and 
sugar  upon  it,  on  watch.  As  I  hurried  in 
I  heard  it  yell,  'Hurry,  Mama !  A  fat  man 
at  Whitman's  door !'  and  presently  a  female 
watcher  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  pat 
tered  to  the  door,  wiping  her  fat  arms  on 
a  checked  apron.  I  heard  her  say  as  she 
retreated,  'Jimmie,  watch  if  he  comes  out!' 
This  confirmed  the  suspicion  I  had  long  had, 
that  someone  in  the  vicinity  held  that  persons 
entered  but  didn't  leave  the  Whitman  house, 
and  that  they  mysteriously  disappeared." 
(Thomas  Donaldson.) 

This  is  no  doubt  curiously  exaggerated; 
the  woman  probably  only  wished  to  get  an 
other  glimpse  of  the  "fat  man"  as  he  came 
out;  but  it  is  interesting  as  showing  the  feel 
ing  of  a  visitor.  The  effect  of  such  condi 
tions  upon  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Davis,  living 
in  the  house  itself  and  constantly  exposed 
to  the  oppressive  surveillance,  might  well 
have  been  serious.  But  she  had  a  placid  dis 
position  and  took  things  quietly.  She  was 
not  at  all  disturbed  because  none  of  the 
older  watchers  made  overtures  towards  an 
acquaintance. 

It  was  different  with  the  young  people, 
however,  for  after  their  awe  had  somewhat 
subsided  they  began  to  be  venturesome — to 


40  WALT  WHITMAN 

show  their  hardihood  perhaps — and  soon  be 
came  quite  familiar,  making  the  cellar  doors 
(old-fashioned  slanting  ones)  their  regular 
rendezvous.  Here  they  would  come  to  "mind 
babies,"  to  hold  mimic  school  and  singing 
classes,  to  play  games,  keep  house,  take 
lunch  and  eat  taffy  purchased  at  a  little 
corner  store.  Undoubtedly  one  inducement 
for  their  constant  visits  was  the  chance 
of  getting  one  of  the  pennies  that  rolled  oc 
casionally  out  of  the  window  above.  Before 
summer  had  ended  they  had  grown  decid 
edly  sociable,  and  in  one  of  their  favorite 
pastimes — running  up  and  sliding  down  the 
cellar  doors — each  would  pause  for  a  mo 
ment  at  the  top  and  peek  in  at  the  "good 
gray  poet"  as  he  sat  anchored  in  his  great 
chair,  and  ask,  "How  do  you  do  to-day, 
Mr.  Whitman?" 

The  poet's  original  style  of  dressing  was 
probably  one  reason  why  he  attracted  so 
much  notice.  He  wore  gray  clothes,  large 
of  make  and  uncertain  of  fit,  with  an  open 
vest,  over  which  was  turned  the  broad  col 
lar  of  his  shirt.  The  latter,  during  his  entire 
sojourn  in  Camden,  was  invariably  made  of 
a  good  quality  of  unbleached  cotton.  He 
preferred  this  to  any  other  material,  and  he 
could  not  tolerate  a  separate  collar,  starched 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  41 

bosom  or  necktie.  He  despised  an  ordinary 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  carried  instead  a 
generous  piece  of  soft  cotton  or  cheesecloth. 
His  wide-brimmed  hat,  always  looking  the 
worse  for  wear,  was  usually  turned  up  in 
front. 

All  this,  with  his  size  and  long  white  hair 
and  beard,  made  him  a  picturesque  individ 
ual,  and  it  was  only  natural  that  he  should  be 
recognized  at  once  as  a  decidedly  uncommon 
person. 

Walt  was  an  invalid  and  infirm,  never 
theless  when  he  was  equipped  and  started 
he  could  go  unaccompanied  to  Philadelphia 
and  other  nearby  places.  This  enabled  him 
to  call  upon  friends,  transact  matters  of  busi 
ness  and  keep  in  touch  with  the  world  gen 
erally.  Sometimes  he  would  take  an  extend 
ed  ride  on  a  street  car,  but  the  greatest 
source  of  enjoyment  to  him  was  a  trip  back 
and  forth  on  the  Delaware  River.  From  the 
ferry  boat  he  could  feast  his  eyes  upon  ships 
— "those  floating  poems"  (his  own  words) 
— either  in  the  distance  or  passing  close  at 
hand.  And  here  he  was  sure  to  meet  some 
old  acquaintance  or  to  make  a  new  one,  and 
so  feel  himself  still  a  factor  in  the  busy  bus 
tling  life  around  him. 

Pleasant  as  were  these  rides  to  him,  each 


42  WALT  WHITMAN 

one  brought  more  or  less  tribulation  to  Mrs. 
Davis,  for  governed  as  he  apparently  was  by 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  she  was  never 
given  warning  of  his  intentions  or  allowed 
time  for  preparations.  His  excursions  there 
fore  were  a  trial  she  had  not  counted  upon. 
He  would  not  mention  the  ferry,  or  hint  of 
going  there,  until  he  was  seated  at  the  table, 
or  more  likely  had  finished  his  breakfast. 
This  made  much  extra  running  up  and  down 
for  Mary,  who  could  have  simplified  mat 
ters  by  having  him  dressed  to  begin  with 
for  the  weather  and  the  occasion. 

This  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  him.  Crip 
pled,  slow,  and  requiring  so  much  assistance, 
and  feeling  that  neither  his  own  time  nor 
that  of  anyone  else  was  of  much  account, 
it  was  often  past  noon  before  he  was  ready 
for  the  start.  Then  Mrs.  Davis,  who  always 
saw  him  safely  on  the  street  car,  would  hur 
riedly  don  her  outer  garments,  for  Mr. 
Whitman  had  little  patience  with  delay  in 
other  people.  The  housekeeper  helping  the 
poet  down  the  front  steps  was  a  sight  none 
of  the  neighbors  would  willingly  lose,  there 
fore  the  couple  always  sallied  forth  under 
the  musketry  of  glances  shot  out  at  them 
from  every  direction. 

When  walking  in  the  street  Mr.   Whit- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  43 

man  carried  his  cane  in  one  hand,  and  with 
the  other  he  clung  tightly  to  the  arm  of  his 
companion.  His  size  and  weight  (even 
now,  in  spite  of  his  invalidism,  he  weighed 
two  hundred  pounds)  would  have  made  a 
fall  a  serious  matter. 

The  street  cars — horse  cars,  running  at 
fifteen  minute  intervals — on  their  way  to 
the  ferry  crossed  Mickle  Street  at  the  first 
corner  above.  If  unfortunately  one  was 
missed,  it  seemed  a  long  and  tedious  wait 
for  the  next.  To  Mrs.  Davis  this  was  both 
tiresome  and  embarrassing;  embarrassing 
because  of  the  lookers-on,  and  tiresome  be 
cause  during  the  delay  Mr.  Whitman  de 
pended  mainly  upon  her  arm  for  support. 

All  the  conductors  knew  the  picturesque 
old  man,  and  were  obliging  and  attentive  to 
him.  When  he  was  entrusted  to  their  care 
Mrs.  Davis  had  nothing  to  fear;  she  was 
also  confident  that  he  would  find  a  helping 
hand  wherever  he  might  go,  so  quickly  doing 
her  buying  and  errands  she  would  hasten 
home,  where  a  myriad  of  duties  awaited 
her. 

Mr.  Whitman  never  gave  a  clue  to  his 
calculations — if  he  happened  to  have  any — 
and  consequently  there  could  be  no  certainty 
as  to  the  length  of  time  he  might  be  away. 


44  WALT  WHITMAN 

However,  in  the  case  of  a  ferry  ride  a  few 
hours  might  be  counted  upon.  Of  these 
Mary  would  make  full  use;  then  as  the  after 
noon  lengthened  and  dinner  time  ap 
proached,  she  would  grow  restless  and  com 
mence  going  to  meet  the  cars.  The  return 
route  was  two  blocks  away,  but  the  distance 
could  be  shortened  by  way  of  the  back  gate. 

If  Mr.  Whitman  was  not  in  the  first  car 
met,  she  would  hurry  back,  accomplish  what 
she  could  in  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  then  go  again.  Frequently  when  the  car 
was  not  on  time,  some  domestic  calamity 
would  occur;  the  fire  would  go  out,  or  some 
thing  burn,  or  a  pot  boil  or  stew  over.  In 
this  case  she  would  make  what  reparation 
she  could  in  the  limited  time  allotted  her, 
then  go  again.  This  order  of  things  would 
be  kept  up  until  Mr.  Whitman's  arrival; 
then  would  come  the  slow  walk  home,  and 
the  equally  slow  removing  of  wrappings, 
over-shoes  and  so  on. 

He  always  returned  hilarious,  braced  up 
by  the  good  time  he  had  enjoyed,  and  totally 
unconscious  that  his  housekeeper  had  had 
any  extra  work  whatever,  or  a  minute  of 
anxiety  on  his  account.  The  rides  were  in 
deed  trying  to  her,  and  in  pleasant  weather 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  45 

he  would  go  no  less  than  three  or  four  times 
a  week. 

Following  the  ferry  ordeals,  there  came 
another  unlooked-for  tax,  that  of  getting 
him  ready  for  winter  engagements  and  tak 
ing  him  wherever  he  had  to  go.  There 
would  have  been  less  trouble  in  this  if  he 
had  possessed  a  suitable  outfit,  but  as  he 
had  made  but  few  additions  to  his  scanty 
wardrobe,  the  threadbare  garments  needed 
constant  renovation.  He  had  sufficient  shirts, 
however,  now;  for  soon  after  getting  into 
his  own  house  he  had  given  her  money  for 
material,  and  she  had  made  him  six  new 
ones.  He  himself  superintended  the  cutting 
out  and  putting  together,  as  they  were  to  be 
fashioned  with  exactitude  after  the  old  pat 
tern.  With  one  of  them  he  was  particularly 
pleased,  for  around  the  collar  and  cuffs  Mrs. 
Davis  had  sewed  some  lace  edging  of  her 
own.  This  shirt  he  kept  for  special  occa 
sions,  and  never  put  it  on  without  making 
some  pleasant  remark  in  regard  to  the  trim 
ming. 

But  of  the  two,  Mrs.  Davis  had  much  the 
more  pride  in  his  appearance,  for  she  had 
learned  that  he  was  often  invited  to  meet 
distinguished  people.  She  accompanied  him 
on  his  way  to  all  social  gatherings,  and  un- 


46  WALT  WHITMAN 

less  other  escort  was  assured,  called  for  him. 
This,  however,  was  of  rare  occurrence,  as 
guests  began  to  vie  with  each  other  in  see 
ing  him  home.  She  also  went  with  him  to 
places  of  business  in  Camden  and  Philadel 
phia,  at  which  times  he  depended  upon  her 
alone,  both  going  and  coming  back.  The 
task  of  walking  with  him  was  doubly  burden 
some  when  the  roads  were  rough  and  un 
even,  or  slippery  with  snow  and  ice,  which 
caused  him  to  cling  to  her  arm  with  a  grip 
of  iron.  He  had  lost  strength  in  his  lower 
limbs,  but  gained  it  in  the  upper,  as  Mary 
often  realized,  though  Mr.  Whitman  was  un 
aware  of  the  severity  of  the  pressure. 

As  he  could  not  carry  his  cane  in  his  left 
hand,  the  entire  strain  came  upon  her  right 
arm,  and  as  he  became  more  and  more  de 
pendent  upon  her,  these  walks  grew  almost 
unendurable ;  especially  so  when,  for  some 
purpose  or  other,  or  upon  meeting  a  friend, 
he  would  thoughtlessly  stand  to  talk,  never 
releasing  his  grip. 


VI 
MR.  WHITMAN  DRIVES 


"7  swear  I  will  never  again  mention  love  or  death  in 
side  a  house,  and  I  swear  I  will  never  translate  myself 
at  all,  only  to  him  or  her  'who  privately  stays  with  me  in 
the  open  air" — WALT  WHITMAN. 

"For  such  a  lover  of  nature  not  to  be  able  to  get  out  of 
doors,  was  a  calamity  than  which  no  greater  was  known." 

— THOMAS  DONALDSON. 


THE  first  winter  over,  spring  came  and 
was  passed  in  about  the  same  daily 
routine;  but  before  the  summer  was  far  ad 
vanced  Mrs.  Davis  was  convinced  that  the 
old  man's  walking  days  were  rapidly  draw 
ing  to  a  complete  close.  This  troubled  her 
greatly,  and  during  one  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Donaldson's  frequent  evening  visits  she 
talked  earnestly  with  him  about  it. 

Mr.  Donaldson,  the  poet's  intimate  and 
constant  friend,  was  a  practical  man;  one 
ready  to  listen  to  the  suggestions  of  others, 
and  to  assist  in  forwarding  their  plans. 
Between  him  and  Mrs.  Davis  there  was  a 
mutual  understanding;  each  knew  the  other's 
worth.  He  had  always  shown  consideration 
47 


48  WALT  WHITMAN 

for  her;  had  sought  her  out  in  her  own 
house,  and  stood  manfully  by  her  side  in 
her  ministrations  to  the  invalid. 

She  told  him  she  was  certain,  from  the 
number  of  letters  Mr.  Whitman  received, 
his  many  visitors  from  other  cities  and 
abroad,  his  increasing  list  of  invitations  and 
requests  for  personal  interviews,  that  he 
must  be  a  man  in  whom  others  were  deeply 
interested. 

She  said  that  for  some  time  she  had  had  a 
plan  in  her  mind.  It  was  this:  that  he 
should  write  to  Mr.  Whitman's  friends — as 
he  knew  just  who  they  were — and  solicit  a 
subscription  of  ten  dollars  from  each  of 
them,  the  fund  to  be  appropriated  to  the 
purchase  of  a  horse  and  carriage  for  the 
poet's  use. 

Mr.  Donaldson  fell  in  with  the  scheme, 
and  thirty-one  of  the  thirty-five  letters  writ 
ten  by  him  received  prompt  replies,  and  in 
each  was  the  sum  asked  for.  As  the  gift 
was  to  be  a  surprise,  only  a  few  friends  were 
let  into  the  secret.  A  comfortable  buggy 
was  ordered  and  a  gentle  pony  selected,  as 
it  was  supposed  the  drives  would  be  quiet 
ones,  in  suburban  places. 

On  the  fifteenth  of  September  all  was 
completed,  and  Mr.  Donaldson  came  over 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  49 

in  the  afternoon,  ostensibly  to  make  a  call. 
He  found  his  friend  on  a  lounge  in  the  front 
room,  and  seating  himself  commenced  to 
chat  with  him  upon  the  topics  of  the  times. 
This  he  continued  to  do  until  he  heard  the 
gift  carriage  drive  up  to  the  door.  His 
young  son  Elaine  sat  by  the  driver's  side. 

Mr.  Donaldson  went  to  the  window,  and 
Mr.  Whitman  hobbled  after  him  to  see  who 
had  arrived.  "Bless  me,"  he  said,  "what 
a  fine  turnout !  And  there  is  Elaine ! 
Well,  well,  how  the  lad  does  seem  to  fit  it; 
how  comfortable  it  does  look!  What  does 
it  all  mean?" 

"It  certainly  does  look  comfortable,"  Mr. 
Donaldson  replied,  "and  Walt,  it's  yours." 
This  statement  he  repeated  twice  before  his 
astonished  friend  could  believe  he  had  heard 
aright,  and  even  then  he  did  not  appear  to 
take  in  or  comprehend  the  full  meaning  of 
such  an  announcement.  While  still  dazed 
and  hardly  himself — impassive  as  was  his 
natural  demeanor — his  friend  handed  him  a 
letter  containing  the  names  of  the  contribu 
tors,  in  an  envelope  with  $135.40  enclosed. 
Mr.  Whitman  read  the  letter  and  was  com 
pletely  overcome;  tears  trickled  down  his 
cheeks,  and  he  was  unable  to  articulate  a 
word. 


50  WALT  WHITMAN 

When  he  was  somewhat  composed,  Mrs. 
Davis,  who  had  been  slyly  watching  the 
scene,  came  in  with  his  coat  and  hat,  and 
proposed  that  he  should  at  once — and  for 
the  first  time — take  a  drive  in  a  turnout  of 
his  own.  It  proved  to  be  a  long  drive,  as 
it  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  re 
turned. 

Mrs.  Davis  was  delighted;  the  gift  sur 
passed  her  highest  expectations,  was  much 
nicer  and  more  expensive  than  she  had 
thought  it  was  to  be ;  and  she  rejoiced  to  see 
the  poor  old  man,  who  not  two  years  before 
had  shuffled  to  her  door,  now  riding  in  a 
carriage  of  his  own! — and  one  provided, 
too,  by  those  friends  he  had  told  her  of, 
friends  she  had  believed  to  be  but  myths 
conjured  up  in  his  own  lonesome  mind. 

Mr.  Whitman  deeply  appreciated  the 
compliment  paid  him.  He  said:  "I  have 
before  now  been  made  to  feel  in  many 
touching  ways  how  kind  and  thoughtful  my 
loving  friends  are,  but  this  present  is  so 
handsome  and  valuable,  and  comes  so  op 
portunely,  and  is  so  thoroughly  a  surprise, 
that  I  can  hardly  realize  it.  My  paralysis 
has  made  me  so  lame  lately  that  I  have  had 
to  give  up  my  walks.  Oh !  I  shall  have  a 
famous  time  this  fall!" 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  51 

Previous  to  the  presentation  an  arrange 
ment  had  been  made  at  a  nearby  stable  for 
the  care  of  the  horse,  the  running  expense 
of  which  was  to  be  met  by  a  number  of 
friends;  a  young  man  was  also  engaged  to 
harness  the  horse  and  drive  the  rig  to  the 
door.  But  who  was  to  summon  it?  That 
part  being  unprovided  for,  it  fell  to  Mrs. 
Davis,  and  Mr.  Whitman  became  as  erratic 
with  his  horse  as  he  was  with  all  other 
things.  Some  mornings  it  would  be:  "I 
must  give  up  my  ride  to-day,  the  weather  is 
so  uncertain";  soon  after:  "It  looks  like 
clearing  up,  I  will  go";  then  on  Mrs.  Davis's 
return  from  the  stable :  "I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  defer  my  ride."  Again  would 
come  the  determination  to  go,  followed 
with  the  afterthought  of  remaining  at  home, 
until  ordering  the  carriage  and  counter 
manding  the  order  would  keep  the  obliging 
messenger  running  to  and  from  the  stable 
until  dark. 

Riding  was  so  great  an  enjoyment  to  Mr. 
Whitman  that  when  once  in  his  carriage  he 
was  loth  to  leave  it.  "Only  one  thing 
seemed  to  have  the  power  of  forcing  from 
him  an  occasional  lament,  and  that  was  pro 
longed  stormy  weather  when  bad  health  kept 
him  indoors  for  days  and  weeks." 


52  WALT  WHITMAN 

Poor  Frank,  the  pony,  had  not  been  se 
lected  for  speed  or  endurance,  and  in  an 
amazingly  short  time  he  succumbed  to  over 
driving.  At  the  expiration  of  only  two 
months,  Mr.  Donaldson  says,  "the  pony 
showed  the  effects  of  Mr.  Whitman's  fast 
driving,  and  had  a  shake  in  the  forelegs — 
or  rather  tremble — that  gave  the  impression 
that  he  was  getting  ready  to  lie  down  .  .  . 
Some  weeks  after  this  I  was  again  in  Cam- 
den,  and  while  on  the  main  street  I  saw  a 
cloud  of  dust  rising  from  a  fast-approaching 
vehicle.  In  a  moment  a  splendid  bay  horse 
attached  to  a  buggy  came  into  view.  He 
was  coming  in  a  mile  in  three  minutes'  gait, 
and  to  my  amazement,  in  the  buggy  was 
Walt  Whitman  holding  on  to  the  lines  with 
one  hand  for  dear  life.  When  he  observed 
me,  he  drew  up  with  great  difficulty  and 
called  out,  'Hello,  Tom,  ain't  he  splendid?' 
My  breath  was  about  gone.  I  managed  to 
speak.  'Mr.  Whitman,  in  the  name  of 
common  sense  what  has  come  over  you? 
Where  is  Frank?'  'Sold;  I  sold  him.  He 
was  groggy  in  the  knees  and  too  slow.  This 
horse  is  a  goer,  and  delights  me  with  his 


motion.' 


The    ready   sale    of   Frank  was    a    great 
mortification  to  Mrs.  Davis,  and  she  felt  it 


IN  MICKLE  STJREET  53 

keenly;  the  more  so  as  the  pony  had  been, 
in  a  measure,  the  outcome  of  her  suggestion. 

Although  the  horse  and  carriage  were  "a 
source  of  infinite  joy  and  satisfaction  to  Mr. 
Whitman,  and  aided  him  to  pass  three  years 
of  his  invalid  life  in  comparative  ease,  giving 
him  touches  of  life  and  air  and  scenery 
otherwise  impossible,"  they  were  a  constant 
expense  and  vexation  to  others. 

He  seldom  went  for  a  drive  alone,  and 
as  a  rule  chose  as  his  companion  one  of  the 
many  young  men  of  his  acquaintance.  He 
always  wished  to  hold  the  lines  himself. 
Although  Mrs.  Davis  was  the  usual  mes 
senger  to  and  from  the  stable,  although  she 
got  her  charge  ready  for  his  drives,  assisted 
him  to  the  carriage  and  almost  lifted  him 
in  and  out  of  it,  neither  he  nor  anyone  else 
ever  proposed  that  she  should  have  the 
pleasure  of  a  drive,  or  suggested  that  an  oc 
casional  airing  might  do  her  good. 

While  owning  the  horse  Mr.  Whitman 
did  not  wholly  discontinue  his  ferry  rides, 
but  he  no  longer  "haunted  the  Delaware 
River  front"  as  formerly. 

What  a  change  two  years  had  made  in 
his  surroundings! — and  what  a  change  in 
those  of  Mary  Davis !  He  had  come  more 
prominently  before  the  great  world;  she  had 


54  WALT  WHITMAN 

nearly  passed  out  of  her  own  limited  sphere. 
The  tide  which  turned  when  they  entered  the 
Mickle  Street  house  was  now  in  full  flood 
for  him.  But  what  for  her? 

His  book  had  had  a  good  sale;  private 
contributions  were  sent  to  him,  amounting 
to  many  hundreds  of  dollars;  and  from  this 
time  on  he  did  little  with  his  pen,  though 
he  got  occasional  lifts  from  periodicals  for 
both  old  and  new  work,  and  the  New  York 
Herald  paid  him  a  regular  salary  as  one  of 
its  editorial  staff.  But  he  resigned  this 
position  the  following  year. 


VII 

BROOMS,    BILLS   AND    MENTAL 
CHLOROFORM 

"He  detested  a  broom.    He  considered  it  almost  a  sin  to 
sweep,  and  always  made  a  great  fuss  when  it  was  done." 

— EDDIE  WILKINS. 

"The  tremendous  firmness  of   Walt  Whitman's   nature 
grew  more  inflexible  with  advancing  years" 

— HORACE  TRAUBEL. 

THE  second  winter  in  Mickle  Street 
passed  much  like  the  previous  one. 
To  Mr.  Whitman  it  brought  heavier  mail, 
an  increase  of  complimentary  notes  and  in 
vitations,  more  numerous  requests  for  auto 
graphs,  steady  progress  with  revision-work, 
a  little  new  and  profitable  composition,  the 
delightful  companionship  of  old  friends,  the 
pleasure  of  making  new  ones,  and  the  com 
fortable  assurance  that  come  what  might, 
there  was  a  capable  captain  at  the  helm, 
who  would  on  all  occasions  guide  the  ship  of 
affairs  smoothly  along.  To  Mrs.  Davis  it 
brought  the  same  old  round  of  work. 

The  next  spring  and  part  of  the  summer 
were    charming    seasons    to    the    poet.     In 
55 


56  WALT  WHITMAN 

them  he  revelled  in  his  turnout;  was  sought 
after,  eulogized  and  lauded.  His  day-star 
was  truly  in  the  ascendant. 

This  acknowledged  popularity  was  a  rev 
elation  to  Mrs.  Davis,  who  often  asked 
herself,  "Where  were  these  friends — the 
ones  in  particular  who  have  always  lived  in 
Camden — when  a  short  time  ago  poor  old 
Mr.  Whitman,  homeless  and  uncared  for, 
so  much  needed  their  help?" 

But  as  his  popularity  increased  and  grew 
more  marked,  as  letters  and  invitations  came 
pouring  in,  and  as  at  certain  gatherings  she 
knew  him  to  be  the  honored  guest,  it  began 
to  dawn  upon  her  that  his  poetry — the 
poetry  she  had  so  often  heard  derided — 
might  mean  something  after  all,  and  she  set 
herself  assiduously  to  studying  it.  Finding 
so  much  that  was  beyond  her  comprehension, 
she  sometimes  sought  elucidation  from  the 
author.  This  he  never  vouchsafed,  and 
gave  but  one  reply  to  all  her  questions: 
"Come,  you  tell  me  what  it  means."  Un 
able  to  comply,  she  soon  laid  the  book  aside 
and  gave  her  time  and  attention  to  other 
matters.  Thus,  failing  to  understand  any 
thing  of  his  "soul  flights,"  she  no  doubt  was 
the  better  prepared  to  minister  to  his  mun 
dane  needs.  A  domestic  angel  in  the  house 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  57 

she  certainly  could  be.  An  intellectual  angel 
might  have  worried  Mr.  Whitman. 

Yes,  his  day-star  was  truly  shining.  It 
was  no  will-o'-the-wisp  he  was  chasing  the 
day  he  came  hungry  and  cold,  weary  and 
desolate  to  a  good  woman's  door.  Evi 
dently  he  might  have  done  better  with  his 
"little  money"  at  that  time,  even  if  it  was 
"only  in  sight,"  as  "driblets  were  occasion 
ally  coming  in."  With  these  driblets  he 
might  have  kept  himself  more  presentable, 
seemed  less  of  a  derelict.  But  he  had  one 
preeminent  need:  he  needed  Mary  Davis, 
and  he  got  her. 

She  had  not  peered  into  the  future  with 
his  prophetic  insight,  and  in  helping  to  open 
the  way  for  the  good  times  to  come — times 
he  had  told  her  so  much  about — she  had 
been  governed  by  her  kind  heart  alone. 
Her  associates  had  never  spoken  of  her 
protege  in  any  too  flattering  terms,  and 
weighing  all  poets  by  his  local  standard,  had 
congratulated  themselves  that  not  one  of 
them  was  in  danger  of  ever  degenerating 
into  such  genius. 

By  midsummer  Mr.  Whitman  had  visited 
in  and  near  Camden,  and  had  made  two  or 
three  trips  to  Atlantic  City  and  New  York. 
Everyone  was  kind  and  considerate  to  him, 


58  WALT  WHITMAN 

wherever  he  might  be,  and  as  a  reliable 
person  always  accompanied  him  on  these  ex 
peditions,  Mrs.  Davis  was  never  uneasy  on 
his  account,  and  his  absences  were  her  op 
portunities  for  resting  up  and  putting  the 
house  to  rights.  Nor  did  she  altogether 
skip  the  parlors,  for  she  had  somewhat  lost 
her  confidence  in  Mr.  Whitman's  gift  of 
missing  the  very  thing  that  was  gone. 
Another  Mary — an  unfortunate  woman; 
but  who  ever  attached  themselves  to  Mrs. 
Davis  who  were  not  in  some  trouble  or 
other? — used  to  come  in  to  assist  when 
extra  help  was  required.  Her  field  of 
action  ended  at  the  kitchen  door  when  the 
master  was  at  home,  for  she  stood  in  great 
awe  of  him  and  knew  better  than  to  appear 
in  his  presence  with  any  order-restoring  im 
plement  in  her  hands,  especially  a  broom. 
But  how  she  exulted  when  he  was  at  a 
distance ;  when  she  could  pass  the  old  bound 
ary  unchallenged,  and  could  rub  and  polish 
to  her  heart's  desire,  and  according  to  her 
own  ideas  of  cleanliness.  She  was  often 
heard  to  remark  that  Mr.  Whitman  was  the 
most  "unthrifty"  man  she  had  ever  met. 

Mr.  Whitman  might  be  able  to  control 
the  use  of  brooms  about  his  own  premises, 
but  his  authority  did  not  extend  beyond. 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  59 

How  the  women  of  the  locality  learned  of 
his  antipathy  to  sweeping,  either  in  or  out 
of  doors,  is  not  known.  Probably  in  some 
unguarded  moment  he  had  condemned  it  in 
their  hearing.  "He  was  extremely  annoyed 
by  the  habit  the  women  of  his  neighborhood 
had  of  coming  out  two  or  three  times  a  day 
with  their  brooms,  and  stirring  up  the  water 
in  the  gutter.  He  thought  it  caused  ma 
laria.  If  they  would  only  let  it  alone!" 
(Thomas  Donaldson.) 

It  may  be  that  the  women  made  their 
brooms  an  excuse  for  tantalizing  "The 
Poet."  He  was  no  less  opposed  to  their 
sweeping  in  dry  weather,  and  one  morning 
when  six  or  seven  appeared  simultaneously 
and  set  to  sweeping  with  a  will,  he  knew 
that  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  concerted 
plan,  and  this  he  would  not  endure.  Irri 
tated  beyond  self-control,  he  let  his  indigna 
tion  fly  out  of  the  window  in  passionate  and 
pointed  sentences,  which  the  sweepers  totally 
ignored. 

In  1867,  about  four  years  after  his 
general  breakdown,  he  had  commenced  to 
give  occasional  lectures.  This  spring  (1886) 
he  delivered  two,  the  first  on  March  i, 
in  Morton  Hall,  Camden,  the  second  on 
the  afternoon  of  April  15,  in  the  Chestnut 


60  WALT  WHITMAN 

Street  Opera  House,  Philadelphia.  Both 
lectures  were  upon  the  same  subject,  his 
favorite  theme  :  Abraham  Lincoln. 

He  was  not  an  orator,  and  his  audiences 
were  at  all  times  made  up  of  people  more 
curious  perhaps  to  see  than  to  hear  him. 
This  second  lecture — his  last  appearance  but 
one  as  a  speaker  in  the  "Quaker  City" — 
was  a  greater  strain  than  he  had  calculated 
upon,  although  the  arrangements  had  been 
made  for  him  by  his  friends,  and  he  was 
conveyed  from  his  own  house  direct  to  the 
back  door  of  the  theatre. 

He  always  remained  in  his  carriage  while 
crossing  the  river. 

Few  people  attended  this  lecture,  and  out 
of  the  $692  it  netted  him,  only  $78.25  was 
received  at  the  door.  The  rest  was  made 
up  by  appreciative  admirers.  Two  gentlemen 
gave  each  $100,  four  gave  $50  each,  eight 
gave  $10,  two  $5,  and  a  society — The 
Acharon — gave  $45.  The  money  was 
handed  to  Mr.  Whitman  in  a  large  white 
envelope  as  he  left  the  stage.  It  was  not 
removed  from  the  envelope  until  the  next 
forenoon,  when  it  was  deposited  unbroken 
in  the  bank. 

During  the  summer  Mr.  Whitman  sus 
tained  a  sunstroke,  fortunately  not  a  serious 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  61 

one,  but  while  suffering  from  the  effects  of 
it  he  was  obliged  to  give  up  his  jaunts  and 
remain  indoors.  However,  on  pleasant 
evenings  he  could  sit  in  a  chair  on  the  side 
walk,  under  his  one  cherished  shade  tree, 
into  the  bark  of  which  he  soon  wore  a  hole 
with  the  restless  movement  of  his  right  foot. 
Of  the  passers-by  there  were  few  who  did 
not  know  him;  many  would  pause  for  a 
moment's  speech,  others  would  occasionally 
get  a  chair  and  remain  for  an  hour's  chat. 
He  soon  recovered,  but  if  the  similar  stroke 
he  had  suffered  a  few  years  before  had 
served  "to  lower  his  fund  of  strength, 
weaken  the  springs  of  his  constitution  and 
almost  wholly  destroy  his  walking  powers," 
(Thomas  Donaldson),  there  was  certainly 
little  encouragement  in  store  for  him. 

His  housekeeper,  too,  had  her  physical 
troubles.  She  had  visibly  changed;  how 
could  it  be  otherwise?  The  back  part  of 
the  house  was  gloomy,  at  times  damp  and 
unwholesome,  and  she  had  grappled  with  so 
many  difficulties  that  she  had  lost  strength 
and  flesh,  felt  run  down  and  nervous,  while 
the  "rosy  cheeks"  had  faded  forever. 

This  sickness  not  only  made  Mr.  Whitman 
even  more  dependent  upon  her  than  usual, 
but  it  caused  her  great  anxiety  in  another 


62  WALT  WHITMAN 

way.  She  realized  the  great  risk  she  had 
taken  and  was  taking,  for  on  coming  into 
the  house  she  had  relied  upon  verbal 
promises  alone ;  no  written  contract  or 
agreement  had  been  entered  into. 

Now  month  had  followed  month  and  she 
had  waited  in  vain  for  the  old  man  to 
allude  to  living  expenses  or  inquire  as  to  her 
ability  to  meet  them  longer.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  since  being  settled  in  his  own 
house  Walt  had  never  mentioned  money,  or 
in  any  way  broached  the  subject  of  his  finan 
cial  standing. 

During  the  first  year  she  had  not  been  at 
all  disturbed  in  mind;  she  had  confidence  in 
his  integrity,  and  believed  he  had  no  means 
of  meeting  present  embarrassments.  The 
next  summer  she  saw  that  money  was  com 
ing  in  from  a  number  of  sources,  but  had 
no  way  of  learning  the  amounts  received  or 
in  what  way  they  were  disbursed.  This 
sunstroke  and  the  consequences  that  might 
have  resulted  from  it  were  enough  to  arouse 
her  thoroughly.  Not  that  she  had  lost  con 
fidence  in  Mr.  Whitman,  but  it  came  home 
to  her  that  should  he  die  she  would  be  in 
no  way  secured.  Before  long  the  bequest 
left  her  by  Captain  Fritzinger  would  be  fol- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  63 

lowing  her  own  savings,  which  were  rapidly 
dwindling  away. 

After  thinking  the  matter  over  seriously, 
she  resolved  that  as  soon  as  the  sick  man 
had  somewhat  recuperated  she  would  make 
an  effort  to  have  things  put  on  a  new  and 
safer  basis.  She  knew  that  from  private 
donations,  sale  of  books,  government  pen 
sion,  receipts  from  lectures  and  so  on,  he 
had  opened  a  bank  account.  She  also  knew 
he  was  paying  one-half  the  expenses  of 
Edward  at  a  sanitarium  and  was  sending  a 
weekly  remittance  to  his  sister  in  Vermont, 
— and  knowing  all  this,  she  felt  that  she  was 
being  treated  with  injustice.  She  had  al 
ready  spoken  to  Mrs.  Whitman  and  to  one 
or  two  others,  and  they  had  assured  her  that 
Walt  was  abundantly  able  to  meet  all  house 
hold  expenses,  and  would  without  doubt  do 
so  in  his  own  good  time. 

She  had  never  solicited  his  confidence,  and 
yet  while  they  were  strangers,  or  compara 
tive  strangers, — long  before  she  had  enter 
tained  the  slightest  thought  that  she  should 
one  day  exchange  her  home  for  his, — he 
had  talked  freely,  even  confidentially,  to  her; 
had  voluntarily  spoken  of  his  money  mat 
ters,  his  past  disappointments  and  future  ex 
pectations.  But  since  she  had  come  into  the 


64  WALT  WHITMAN 

Mickle  Street  house  he  had  never  renewed 
these  subjects,  and  his  way  of  passing  them 
over  was  inexplicable  to  her. 

When  the  first  repairs  had  been  made  in 
the  house,  she  had  taken  the  bill  to  him  for 
approval  and  payment.  He  had  simply 
glanced  at  it,  and  returned  it  with  the  words : 
"I  think  it  must  be  all  right."  She  had  re 
mained  standing  in  the  doorway  until,  silent, 
seemingly  absorbed  in  his  reading  and  ob 
livious  of  her  presence,  he  had  made  her  feel 
so  uncomfortable  that  she  had  quietly  glided 
away  to  pay  the  carpenter  out  of  her  own 
purse.  This  happened  so  early  in  their 
housekeeping  together  that  she,  so  charitable 
by  nature,  had  excused  him  on  the  ground 
that,  having  no  money,  he  had  disliked  to 
talk  further  about  the  bill.  But  a  year  had 
passed,  she  understood  his  position  better, 
and  she  could  not  excuse  him  again  on  this 
plea.  She  had  mentioned  the  urgent  need 
of  further  repairs  (and  when  were  they  not 
needed  in  this  little  rookery?)  and  he  had 
promptly  replied:  "Have  it  done;  certainly, 
certainly;  have  everything  done  that  is  re 
quired."  The  result  was  still  the  same;  al 
though  ordering  the  work,  he  was  just  as  in 
different  as  before  in  regard  to  settling  for 
it. 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  65 

And  so  it  had  gone  on  in  all  cases  where 
money  had  been  needed,  until  Mrs.  Davis, 
who  was  neither  dull  nor  obtuse,  saw  that  it 
was  merely  a  matter  of  choice  with  him 
whether  he  paid  for  things  promptly  or  not. 
The  receipted  bills  she  had  carefully  filed 
away,  but  what  proof  had  she  that  they 
had  been  met  with  her  own  money? 

At  the  expiration  of  the  second  year,  Mr. 
Whitman  at  his  own  expense  had  the  water 
carried  upstairs  and  a  bathtub  put  in.  This 
was  a  blessing  to  both  of  them,  and  Mrs 
Davis  ungrudgingly  saw  a  portion  of  her 
own  room — the  one  little  back  chamber — 
sacrificed  that  it  might  be  made  possible. 

Up  to  the  time  of  the  sunstroke  she  had 
made  a  number  of  futile  attempts  to  intro 
duce  the  subject  of  finances,  but  he  had 
simply  uttered  "Ah !"  (what  a  world  of 
meaning  he  could  put  into  that  mono 
syllable!)  and  had  silenced  her  with  a  look. 

An  observer  says :  "I  found  Whitman 
sitting  on  the  front  stoop  talking  with  a 
negative  pugnacious  reformer.  The  poet 
entertained  his  ideas  without  a  trace  of  im 
patience  or  severity  of  judgment,  and  yet  he 
was  capable  of  quietly  chloroforming  him  if 
he  became  too  disagreeable."  Another 
writes:  "This  leading  trait  of  his  character 


66  WALT  WHITMAN 

lasted  until  life  glimmered  faintly."  It  was 
this  "leading  trait"  that  prevented  Mrs. 
Davis  from  introducing  any  subject  not 
pleasing  to  him.  Again:  "He  has  his  stern 
as  well  as  sad  moods;  in  the  former  there  is 
a  look  of  power  in  his  face  that  almost 
makes  one  tremble."  Mrs.  Davis  had  no 
fear  of  Mr.  Whitman;  he  never  gave  her 
cause  to  tremble,  but  he  quietly  chloro 
formed  her  times  without  number. 

The  expenses  of  the  house  were  not  light; 
amongst  other  things,  two  coal  fires  in 
winter,  and  a  wood  fire  much  of  the  time. 
Wood  was  a  luxury  to  him,  but  it  was  an 
expensive  item  to  his  housekeeper,  and  the 
little  stove  in  his  sleeping  room  devoured  it 
like  an  insatiate  monster.  "He  enjoyed  a 
wood  fire."  Then  she  supplied  his  table 
and  entertained  his  guests — his  many  guests. 
She  never  bothered  him;  was  always  on 
hand  and  ready  to  help  him  to  mature  his 
plans,  however  inexpedient  or  impracticable 
they  might  appear  to  her. 


VIII 
VISITING    AND    VISITORS 

"His  haunt  on  'Timber  Creek'   is  one  of  the  loveliest 
spots  imaginable;  no  element  lacking  to  make  it  an  ideal 
ground  for  a  poet,  or  study  place  for  a  lover  of  nature." 
— WILLIAM  SLOANE  KENNEDY. 

"April  n,  1887.  /  expect  to  go  to  New  York  to  speak 
my  'Death  of  Lincoln'  piece  Thursday  afternoon  next. 
Probably  the  shake  up  will  do  me  good.  .  .  . 

"Stood  it  well  in  New  York.  It  was  a  good  break  from 
my  monotonous  days  here,  but  if  I  had  stayed  longer,  I 
should  have  been  killed  with  kindness  and  attentions." 

— WALT  WHITMAN. 

IT  was  decided  that  Mr.  Whitman  should 
make  one  of  his  delightful  visits  to  his 
friends,  the  Staffords,  in  their  beautiful 
country  home,  "Timber  Creek,"  just  as  soon 
as  he  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  take  the 
trip,  and  Mrs.  Davis  thought  best  to  defer 
talking  with  him  or  considering  any  definite 
step  regarding  home  matters  until  he  re 
turned.  She  took  pains  to  get  him  ready, 
and,  as  she  had  done  before,  persuadejd 
him  to  purchase  some  new  clothing  and  look 
his  best.  This  visit,  like  previous  ones,  was 
charming  to  the  poet,  and  he  came  home 
much  benefited.  While  he  was  away  Mrs. 
67 


68  WALT  WHITMAN 

Davis  rested  and  paid  a  short  visit  to  the 
aged  parents  of  Mrs.  Fritzinger  in  Doyls- 
town,  Pennsylvania.  In  this  breathing 
spell  she  had  thought  home  matters  over  and 
had  planned  her  mode  of  procedure;  but 
alas !  when  the  poet  appeared  upon  the  spot 
and  she  had  welcomed  him,  the  courage  she 
had  summoned  up  when  he  was  out  of  sight 
deserted  her.  She  threw  out  hints,  then 
made  attempts  to  speak,  but  to  no  avail; 
an  understanding  was  not  brought  about 
and  things  went  on  in  the  old  fashion. 

Much  as  Mr.  Whitman  enjoyed  his  visits 
and  jaunts,  coming  back  to  his  own  home 
was  the  one  great  joy  of  his  life,  and  meet 
ing  his  housekeeper  after  even  a  brief  ab 
sence  was  always  a  pleasure  to  him. 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  fall  when  he  re 
turned.  He  resumed  his  work  at  once, 
and  the  winter  was  not  an  unpleasant  one 
to  him;  only  somewhat  tedious,  because  he 
was  so  closely  confined  to  the  house.  In 
other  ways  it  was  made  cheerful  with  social 
events  and  agreeable  company,  and  it  was 
brightened  with  anticipations  of  the  delight 
ful  drives  to  be  enjoyed  in  the  spring.  (It 
was  about  this  time  that  Horace  Traubel 
commenced  to  come  to  the  house.) 

Each  season  had  added  to  his  popularity, 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  69 

until  he  had  attained  the  zenith  of  his  most 
sanguine  imaginations;  his  most  potent  day 
dreams  had  truly  materialized;  he  was  fully 
on  the  crest  of  the  wave !  His  housekeep 
ing  had  surpassed  his  fondest  expectations, 
for  to  him  his  home  was  ideal.  Depriva 
tion  was  a  thing  of  the  past;  there  was  no 
lack  of  means,  as  private  contributions  were 
sent  to  him  amounting  to  many  hundreds  of 
dollars.  That  he  was  poor  and  needy,  and 
"was  supported  in  his  final  infirmities  by 
the  kind  interest  of  his  friends,  who  sub 
scribed  each  his  mite  that  the  little  old  frame 
house  in  Camden  might  shelter  the  snowy 
head  of  the  bard  to  the  end,"  was  the  uni 
versal  belief,  and  a  kindly  feeling  was  mani 
fested  towards  him  in  his  own  home  and  in 
England.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  was 
not  better  fitted  physically  to  enjoy  all  his 
later  blessings. 

Out-of-doors  life  seemed  essential  to  him, 
and  after  a  number  of  outings  he  was  able, 
as  early  as  April  6,  1887,  to  read  his  Lin 
coln  lecture — the  last  he  gave  in  his  own 
city.  It  was  well  attended,  and  listened  to 
with  deep  attention.  On  the  I2th  of  the 
same  month  he  went  to  New  York  for  the 
purpose  of  reading  his  lecture  there.  He 
was  accompanied  by  William  Duckett,  a 


70  WALT  WHITMAN 

young  friend  who  acted  as  valet  and  nurse, 
and  it  was  on  his  arm  the  old  man  leaned 
as  he  came  forward  on  the  stage  and  stood 
a  few  minutes  to  acknowledge  the  applause 
of  the  audience.  When  the  tumult  had  sub 
sided,  the  poet  sat  down  beside  a  stand,  laid 
his  cane  on  the  floor,  put  on  his  glasses  and 
proceeded  to  read  from  a  little  book,  upon 
whose  pages  the  manuscript  and  printed 
fragments  were  pasted. 

uThe  lecturer  was  dressed  in  a  dark  sack 
coat,  with  dark  gray  waistcoat  and  trousers, 
low  shoes,  and  gray  woollen  socks.  The 
spotless  linen  of  his  ample  cuffs  and  rolling 
collar  was  trimmed  with  a  narrow  band  of 
edging,  and  the  cuffs  were  turned  up  over 
the  ends  of  his  sleeves."  Thus  says  the 
New  York  Tribune  of  the  next  day,  and  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  his  appearance  did 
credit  to  his  housekeeper's  attention  at  this 
time,  as  it  did  on  all  other  public  occasions. 
The  "spotless  linen,"  however,  was  un 
bleached  cotton,  one  of  the  six  new  shirts 
Mrs.  Davis  had  made  for  him. 

The  lecture  was  very  successful.  At  the 
close,  a  little  girl,  Laura  Stedman,  the  five 
year  old  granddaughter  of  the  "banker 
poet,"  walked  out  upon  the  stage  and  pre 
sented  Mr.  Whitman  with  a  basket  of  lilac 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  71 

blossoms.     The  New  York  Times  had  this 
account  of  the  event  the  next  morning: 

"Forth  on  the  stage  came  a  beautiful 
basket  of  lilac  blossoms,  and  behind  it  was 
a  little  bit  of  a  maiden  in  a  white  Normandy 
cap  and  a  little  suit  of  Quaker  gray,  her  eyes 
beaming,  and  her  face  deeply  impressed  with 
the  gravity  of  the  occasion.  She  walked  to 
where  he  sat  and  held  out  her  gift  without 
a  word.  He  started,  took  it  and  then  took 
her. 

"It  was  December  frost  and  May-time 
blossom  at  their  prettiest  contrast,  as  the 
little  pink  cheek  shone  against  the  snow- 
white  beard,  for  the  old  man  told  his  ap 
preciation  mutely  by  kissing  her  and  kissing 
her  again,  the  audience  meanwhile  applaud 
ing  sympathetically." 

Mr.  Whitman  then  recited  his  poem  "O 
Captain!"  and  the  curtain  fell — fell  to  shut 
him  from  the  sight  of  a  New  York  audience 
forever. 

Mrs.  Davis  always  dreaded  Mr.  Whit 
man's  New  York  visits,  and  this  episode 
caused  her  extra  anxiety.  She  knew  that 
his  many  and  influential  friends  would  give 
him  a  warm  welcome  and  a  great  reception, 


72  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  she  also  knew  how  prone  the  poet  was 
to  go  beyond  the  bounds  of  prudence.  He 
could  stand  only  a  little  fatigue  and  excite 
ment  now.  He  returned  in  good  condition, 
however,  and  she  flattered  herself  that  a 
quiet  summer  was  before  them.  He  had 
told  her  that  this  lecture  (which  increased 
his  bank  account  by  six  hundred  dollars) 
was  to  be  his  last  public  function,  but  she 
had  no  knowledge  of  something  else  he  had 
in  near  view;  something  he  had  already  ar 
ranged  for. 


IX 

A  BUST  AND  A  PAINTING 

"Sidney  Morse  has  made  a  second  big  head  (bust),  an 
improvement,  if  I  dare  to  say  so,  on  the  first.  The  second 
is  the  Modern  Spirit  Awake  and  Alert  as  'well  as  Calm — 
contrasted  with  the  antique  and  Egyptian  calmness  of  the 
first." — WALT  WHITMAN. 

"Oh,  that  awful  summer  of  1887!" — MARY  DAVIS. 

EARLY  in  the  summer,  when  he  had 
fully  recovered  from  his  exertions  in 
New  York,  Mr.  Whitman  received  a  letter 
from  a  sculptor,  Mr.  Sidney  Morse,  request 
ing  the  privilege  of  coming  to  Camden  at 
once,  to  make  a  plaster  bust  of  him.  The 
promise  had  been  given  to  Mr.  Morse  for 
the  summer,  but  the  actual  date  had  not  been 
fixed  upon. 

Eleven  years  before  this  artist  had  made 
a  very  unsatisfactory  bust  of  Walt,  one  he 
had  always  wished  to  improve  upon.  On 
the  first  occasion  Walt  had  not  entertained 
the  thought  of  such  an  undertaking  in  his 
brother's  house,  but  had  gone  to  Phila 
delphia  for  the  sittings.  This  time,  as  be 
fore,  the  choice  of  location  had  been  left  tg 
73 


74  WALT  WHITMAN 

him;  and  it  seemed  almost  incredible  that 
he,  who  had  been  initiated  in  this  line  of  art, 
should  have  imposed  upon  his  housekeeper 
to  the  extent  of  giving  his  own  stuffy  little 
house  the  preference  over  a  more  suitable 
place. 

He  had  answered  Mr.  Morse's  letter, 
telling  him  he  would  cheerfully  put  himself 
at  his  disposal;  the  summer  was  before 
them,  and  nothing  else  impending.  In 
short,  he  would  engage  himself  to  him  for 
the  summer,  and  he  was  confident  the  result 
would  be  better  this  time. 

About  two  weeks  elapsed,  and  nothing 
had  been  said  to  Mrs.  Davis  on  the  subject 
when  one  morning  to  her  surprise  the  artist 
arrived,  prepared  to  go  to  work  without  de 
lay.  Had  she  been  consulted,  she  could 
have  made  preliminary  preparations;  had 
she  been  better  informed  she  would  have 
persuaded  Mr.  Whitman  to  select  a  different 
place,  and  had  she  been  fully  enlightened 
she  would  have  insisted  upon  it. 

Mr.  Morse  writes:  "I  found  Mr.  Whit 
man  more  crippled  and  quieter  in  manner 
than  when  we  met  before.  Eleven  years 
had  wrought  their  changes.  He  was  how 
ever  in  a  less  perturbed  frame  of  mind." 

Naturally  so;  in  his  own  home,   contra- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  75 

dieted  in  nothing,  with  his  own  carriage,  and 
a  devoted  woman  to  wait  upon  him, — one 
who  never  intimated  that  there  existed  such 
exigencies  as  living  expenses  or  household 
entanglements.  It  was  left  to  the  artist  to 
tell  Mrs.  Davis  the  purpose  for  which  he 
had  come.  He  said  that  he  was  desirous  of 
beginning  his  work  as  soon  as  was  com 
patible  with  Mr.  Whitman's  convenience, 
and  the  poet  seeing  no  obstacle  in  the  way 
of  an  immediate  commencement,  it  was  de 
cided  that  the  first  sitting  should  take  place 
the  following  afternoon.  Mrs.  Davis  was 
somewhat  enlightened  as  to  what  the  making 
of  a  bust  implied  when  a  load  of  mysterious 
and  cumbersome  articles  drove  up  to  the 
door  in  the  morning.  Puzzled  both  as  to 
their  use  and  where  they  could  be  housed, 
she  had  them  delivered  at  the  back  gate  and 
piled  up  in  the  yard. 

Mr.  Morse  kept  his  appointment  with 
promptitude,  and  after  a  few  minutes'  con 
versation  with  his  subject,  he  summoned  the 
housekeeper,  and  then,  "the  litter  of  every 
thing  under  heaven  was  poked  aside"  to 
make  a  clearing  by  the  window.  Mrs. 
Davis  assisted  him  in  bringing  some  of  the 
articles  from  the  yard,  such  as  boards  and 
boxes  upon  which  to  fashion  the  clay;  then 


76  WALT  WHITMAN 

when  the  necessity  came  for  something  in 
which  to  mix  it,  her  wash  tubs  were  at  once 
appropriated,  and  as  smaller  vessels  were 
from  time  to  time  required,  many  of  her 
dishes  and  kitchen  utensils  were  one  by  one 
pressed  into  service. 

During  the  first  afternoon  the  work  was 
put  well  in  progress,  and  what  a  time  was 
thus  inaugurated !  Before  the  week  ended 
there  was  clay  and  plaster  on  all  sides.  The 
two  men,  interested  in  the  bust  alone,  were 
oblivious  to  everything  else,  and  passed  the 
time  chatting  in  a  lively  strain.  The  artist 
was  satisfied  with  his  work  and  delighted 
with  the  prospect  of  being  undisturbed  until 
its  completion.  He  writes:  "My  deep 
satisfaction  overflowed  to  the  housekeeper, 
who  admonished  me  that  there  was  an  ele 
ment  of  uncertainty  in  Mr.  Whitman's  pro 
gramme  nowadays" — and  sooner  than  he 
had  counted  upon,  her  words  were  verified, 
for  on  the  morning  following  her  mild  warn 
ing  a  telegram  came  and  "the  damper  fell," 
as  Mr.  Morse  says.  This  was  the  tele 
gram:  "Am  in  New  York  and  may  arrive 
in  Camden  at  any  moment.  Herbert  Gil- 
christ." 

"He's  coming  to  paint  me,"  said  Mr. 
Whitman  on  reading  the  message;  "I  had 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  77 

forgotten  about  him.  We  will  put  him 
over  there  somewhere;  I  don't  see  what  I 
can  do  to  stop  it;  he  has  come  all  the  way 
from  England — from  England,  Sidney,  to 
paint  me.  Make  the  best  of  it,  share  the 
crust  with  him."  uThe  damper  fell"  for 
Mrs.  Davis  as  well,  when  Mr.  Whitman  in 
his  usual  off-hand  manner  announced  the 
news  to  her.  Another  artist  coming!  a 
portrait  painter!  And  Mr.  Whitman  wrho 
had  known  of  this  for  an  indefinite  time  had 
given  her  no  warning,  had  taken  her  un 
aware.  She  was  completely  overcome,  and 
not  a  little  indignant.  Had  he  really  for 
gotten  it,  or  had  he  thought  it  a  matter  of 
too  little  importance  to  mention?  It  was 
not  often  that  Mrs.  Davis  shed  tears  in  self- 
pity,  but  now  they  were  her  only  relief.  It 
was  not  the  extra  work  and  expense  that 
troubled  her  most;  it  was  Mr.  Whitman's 
indifference  towards  her. 

Mr.  Morse  was  also  touched,  and  con 
fesses  that  in  his  disappointment  he  was 
half  inclined  to  pack  his  traps  and  go.  For 
a  moment  the  housekeeper's  mind  tended  in 
the  same  direction.  "But,"  continues  Mr. 
Morse,  "when  the  young  man  appeared  on 
the  scene  in  person,  I  was  calm  once  more 
and  ready  to  be  pacified."  Mrs.  Davis  also 


78  WALT  WHITMAN 

calmed  herself  and,  as  was  her  disposition, 
concealed  her  feelings  and  roused  herself  to 
meet  the  emergency.  "The  litter  of  every 
thing  under  heaven"  was  poked  still  further 
aside,  the  stove  was  taken  down  and  put 
into  the  cellar,  things  heaped  and  packed 
higher  in  the  corners  or  carried  out  of  the 
room,  and  a  place  made  for  the  newcomer. 

Mr.  Gilchrist  proved  to  be  an  agreeable, 
enthusiastic  young  man,  and  one  never  to 
get  into  another's  way.  Mr.  Morse  could 
keep  his  place  at  the  window,  and  Mr.  Gil 
christ  could  place  his  easel  a  little  way  back, 
so  that  the  sitter  didn't  need  to  change  his 
position  to  be  in  a  good  light  for  both.  But 
what  of  Mrs.  Davis  when  paint  and  oil 
were  added  to  plaster  and  the  other  refuse 
pervading  the  parlors?  Had  the  confusion 
been  confined  to  these  rooms  alone  it  could 
have  been  held  in  check,  but  for  lack  of 
room  the  kitchen  soon  became  an  auxiliary 
to  the  improvised  studio.  Again  quoting 
Mr.  Morse :  "For  a  week  we  kept  it  up, 
working  some,  talking  more,  Mr.  Whit 
man's  wistful  eye  on  us  both." 

This  favorable  state  of  affairs  was,  how 
ever,  of  short  duration,  for  after  the  first 
week  the  progress  of  the  artists  was  un 
satisfactory;  they  were  hindered  by  constant 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  79 

interruptions,  and  as  company  began  to  pour 
in  upon  them,  some  days  would  pass  and 
find  little  accomplished  by  either.  It 
seemed  a  fatality  that  so  many  people 
should  have  chosen  this  very  time  to  make 
their  visits,  especially  people  from  abroad. 
Before  long  the  strain  of  it  told  visibly  on 
Mr.  Whitman.  Mr.  Morse  observed  not 
only  this,  but  the  anxious  look  on  Mrs. 
Davis's  face  as  well,  and  on  consulting  her 
found  she  was  much  alarmed,  and  feared 
that  their  subject  would  give  out  unless  some 
change  could  be  made.  The  change  was 
made  when  early  the  next  morning  the 
sculptor  betook  himself  with  his  effects  to 
the  yard.  This  arrangement  not  merely 
gave  additional  space  in  the  parlors  where 
two  or  three  spectators  could  sit  or  stand, 
but  it  also  removed  from  them  their  chief 
attraction. 

Some  of  Mr.  Whitman's  friends  called 
daily,  several  twice  or  even  three  times  in  a 
single  day. 

Mr.  Morse  was  satisfied  with  the  new 
order  of  things  and  says :  "In  the  cool 
shadow  of  the  house,  under  a  propitious 
sky  (when  it  was  propitious),  with  high 
boarded  fence,  and  a  grape  vine  wreathing 
itself  into  a  pear  tree  for  a  background,  my 


8o  WALT  WHITMAN 

work  proceeded.  Occasional  excursions  to 
the  studio  in  front  for  memory  sketches 
seemed  to  be  serving  me  all  right." 

Up  to  this  time  Mrs.  Davis  had  had  un 
disputed  possession  of  the  yard,  and  this 
constant  running  back  and  forth  was  almost 
unendurable  to  her.  For  the  excursions 
were  not  confined  to  the  sculptor ;  all  comers, 
casual  or  constant  visitors,  old  friends  and 
strangers,  even  ordinary  passers-by — follow 
ing  the  lead  of  others — deliberately  took 
the  right  of  way  through  the  hall  and 
kitchen,  until  it  might  as  well  have  been  a 
public  passage  from  street  to  yard.  Then 
in  unfavorable  weather,  when  the  work 
could  not  go  on,  came  another  complication, 
as  the  unwieldy  appurtenances  had  to  be 
brought  into  the  little  canvas-covered  alcove, 
shed  and  kitchen,  obstructing  everything. 
It  was  worse  still  in  case  of  a  sudden  shower, 
when  the  things  had  to  be  hustled  in  any 
where  and  anyhow.  But  the  front  of  the 
house !  It  was  vacation  time,  and  the 
"plaster  man"  and  "painter  man"  at  Whit 
man's  were  the  great  source  of  entertain 
ment  in  the  neighborhood.  Children 
thronged  the  cellar  doors  from  early  morn 
ing  until  late  at  night;  babies  were  held  up 
to  look  in,  and  there  was  a  general  scramble 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  81 

for  the  best  point  of  view.  Pedestrians, 
market  people  and  others  passing  the  house 
were  attracted  by  this  manifest  excitement, 
and  there  was  scarcely  one  of  them  who  did 
not  pause  to  satisfy  his  or  her  inquisitiveness 
with  a  peep.  From  a  distance  it  was  diffi 
cult  to  discern  what  could  be  taking  place 
at  the  poet's,  and  everybody,  old  and  young, 
even  the  halt  and  the  lame,  seemed  to  have 
time  to  walk  an  extra  block  or  two  to  as 
certain.  However,  as  there  was  no  alter 
native,  Mrs.  Davis  was  willing  to  bear  it  all 
patiently  for  a  few  weeks  at  most,  as  she 
supposed. 

Mr.  Morse,  pressed  by  his  host,  fell  into 
the  habit  of  remaining  to  lunch;  Mr.  Gil- 
christ  often  joined  them;  and  as  in  the 
course  of  conversation  interesting  subjects 
would  come  up,  the  day's  work  for  both 
frequently  ended  at  noon.  Should  inci 
dental  visitors  arrive  during  meal  time,  they 
were  invited  without  ceremony  or  apology 
to  the  kitchen,  and  Mr.  Whitman  always 
pressed  them  to  eat  something,  regardless 
of  the  time  of  day  or  what  might  be  upon 
the  table.  His  talk  was  animated  and  ar 
resting.  He  would  usually  begin  with  cur 
rent  events,  then  run  into  discussions  on 
various  themes,  often  intricate,  and  the  two 


82  WALT  WHITMAN 

artists  felt  themselves  extremely  fortunate 
to  be  the  privileged  recipients  of  some  of  his 
most  striking  thoughts  and  phrases. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  one  day  an 
English  gentleman  accompanied  by  two 
ladies  rang  at  the  open  door.  Mr.  Whit 
man  had  never  met  them,  but  seeing  them 
from  his  seat  at  the  table  he  welcomed  them 
with  these  words:  "Oh,  darlings,  come  right 
this  way,  come  right  this  way."  On  their 
complying  he  continued:  "Herbert,  Sidney, 
move  a  little.  Mary,  lay  the  plates  and 
bring  the  chairs."  (The  extra  ones  hang 
ing  in  the  shed.)  Then  came  a  hitching 
and  shuffling  of  chairs,  and  a  crowding  to 
gether.  At  first  the  party  looked  a  little 
annoyed,  but  when  they  were  fairly  seated 
they  soon  became  so  absorbed  in  the  poet's 
talk  and  in  his  associates  that,  unconsciously 
to  everyone  except  the  housekeeper,  lunch 
merged  into  dinner.  But  this  was  no  un 
usual  occurrence.  Indeed  there  were  days 
when  Mr.  Whitman  would  remain  at  the 
table  from  lunch  until  a  very  late  hour,  com 
pany  coming  and  leaving  in  relays.  This 
summer,  and  for  some  time  previous,  he  had 
dispensed  with  the  regular  breakfast,  taking 
an  early  cup  of  coffee  and  a  piece  of  toast 
in  his  own  room.  But  the  other  meals  cer- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  83 

tainly  involved  plenty  of  work  and  patience. 
Well  might  he  say:  "Mrs.  Davis  has  a 
knack  of  anticipating  what  I  want,  and  in 
case  of  emergency  at  the  dinner  table  knows 
right  well  how  to  make  the  best  of  it.  She 
has  rare  intelligence  and  her  tact  is  great." 
She  indeed  had  tact.  "Jolly  dinners  you 
have  here,"  quoth  one  distinguished  visitor, 
notwithstanding  they  were  served  in  the 
little  heated  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Davis  always  waited  upon  the  guests 
in  a  pleasant  genial  manner,  and  few  knew 
to  whom  it  was  due  that  the  "jolly  dinners" 
ran  so  agreeably  along.  Her  watchful  eye 
detected  when  any  article  of  food  was  get 
ting  low,  either  for  present  company  or 
when  their  places  were  about  to  be  taken  by 
newcomers.  A  thousand  times  she  slipped 
out  quietly  to  the  little  side  gutter  and  ran 
(she  always  ran)  to  procure  a  loaf  of  Hread, 
an  extra  supply  of  butter,  crackers  or  cheese. 
The  home-made  supplies  rarely  gave  out,  as 
she  provided  bountifully  for  all.  Mr. 
Whitman  had  good  reason  for  going  on  to 
say,  as  he  did:  "I  am  well  pleased  with  my 
housekeeper.  She  does  better  for  me  than 
a  whole  retinue  of  pompous  bothering 
waiters.  I  detest  the  critters;  bowing  and 
watching" — and  probably  expecting  their 


84  WALT  WHITMAN 

just  remuneration — for  to  complete  his  ap 
preciation  of  her  virtues  he  could  have 
added:  "And  she  furnishes  the  means." 

Yes;  the  lingering  lunches  and  "jolly 
dinners"  were  paid  for  out  of  her  fast  de 
creasing  bank  account,  as  was  everything 
else.  It  was  doubtful  if  Mr.  Whitman 
realized  in  how  many  ways  he  was  indebted 
to  her,  or  if  the  idea  ever  occurred  to  him 
that  he  could  ask  too  much  of  her.  So  con 
fident  was  he  of  her  always  making  "the 
best  of  it"  that  nothing  agitated  or  worried 
him.  Yet  this  entertaining  anyone  and 
everyone  in  the  kitchen  often  placed  her  in 
unpleasant  and  embarrassing  predicaments. 
Of  these  he  seemed  to  have  no  knowledge, 
as  he  never  made  an  attempt  to  extricate 
her  from  one.  Visitors  were  often  more 
observing,  and  no  doubt  most  of  them  saw 
under  what  disadvantages  she  was  placed. 
Some  of  them  kindly  helped  her  over  diffi 
culties,  and  others  just  as  kindly  passed  awk 
ward  little  occurrences  by  apparently  un 
noticed. 

Although  Mr.  Whitman  did  not  mind 
what  people  said  or  thought  about  him,  Mrs. 
Davis  was  sensitive  and  criticism  hurt  her 
feelings.  She  knew  full  well  that  she  was 
sometimes  blamed,  by  visitors  who  did  not 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  85 

understand  the  conditions,  for  things  for 
which  she  was  not  at  all  responsible.  She 
knew  that  to  her  charge  was  laid  the  air  of 
negligence  that  pervaded  the  house,  and  even 
Mr.  Whitman's  bluntness  towards  certain 
people. 

"There  were  grim  and  repellent  traits  in 
Walt  Whitman.  He  was  naked  of  manners 
and  suave  apologies  as  the  scarred  crag  of 
the  Matterhorn  of  verdure." 

That  physical  suffering  was  many  times 
the  key  to  the  old  man's  roughness  Mrs. 
Davis  understood,  and  she  had  a  mild  way 
of  smoothing  it  over  and  putting  other 
people  at  ease.  She  always  spoke  highly  of 
both  the  artists,  and  in  many  ways  they 
were  more  considerate  of  her  than  was  their 
host.  With  things  going  on  as  they  did, 
both  were  retarded  in  their  work,  and  each 
in  turn  became  discouraged.  Mr.  Whitman 
would  sometimes  be  out  of  humor  for  sit 
ting,  or  so  worn  out  and  ill  that  he  could  not 
come  downstairs  until  late  in  the  day;  or 
again,  when  all  looked  promising  he  would 
order  his  carriage,  drive  off  and  leave  them 
in  the  lurch. 

Consequently  each  work  of  art  required 
more  time  for  its  completion  than  had  been 
calculated.  Mrs.  Davis  did  her  best  to  en- 


86  WALT  WHITMAN 

courage  both  the  sculptor  and  the  painter, 
and  in  every  way  she  could  devise,  en 
deavored  to  forward  their  work.  She  re 
moved  obstacles;  she  influenced  their  sitter, 
and  persuaded  him  to  be  quieter,  to  avoid 
over-exertion  and  excitement,  to  see  less 
company  and  to  lie  down  during  the  heat  of 
the  day. 

At  length  both  bust  and  picture  were 
finished.  Each  proved  to  be  highly  satis 
factory,  and  by  many  they  are  thought  to 
be  the  most  lifelike  representations  of  the 
original.  Of  the  bust  Mr.  Whitman  him 
self  said:  "I  am  quite  clear  this  is  the 
typical  one;  modern,  reaching  out,  looking 
ahead,  democratic,  more  touch  of  animation, 
unsettledness,  etc.,  etc.  Not  intended  to  be 
polished  off,  left  purposely  a  little  in  the 
rough." 


X 

REST— AND  ROUTINE 

"Heat,  heat,  heat,  day  and  night!  .  .  .  I  am  still 
getting  along  through  the  hot  season — have  things  pretty 
favorable  here  in  my  shanty,  'with  ventilation  (night  and 
day],  frequent  bathing,  light  meals,  all  of  'which  makes 
it  better  for  me  in  my  shattered  helpless  condition  to  tug 
it  out  here  in  Mickle  Street,  than  to  transfer  myself 
somewhere,  to  seashore  or  mountains.  It  is  not  for  a  long 
time,  anyway." — WALT  WHITMAN. 

MR.  Whitman  had  reached  the  limit  of 
endurance  when  the  artists  bid  him 
and  Camden  adieu,  while  Mrs.  Davis,  with 
the  constant  demands  upon  her  time  and 
strength,  the  condition  of  the  house,  un 
limited  entertaining  and  lengthened  working 
hours,  had  completely  succumbed.  Another 
thing  that  had  been  to  their  disadvantage 
was  the  extreme  heat,  for  it  had  been  and 
still  was  an  extremely  hot  summer — a  Jersey 
summer.  Each  was  prostrated,  and  for 
awhile  rest  and  relaxation  alone  could  be 
thought  of.  A  short  lull  that  followed  the 
recent  turmoil,  however,  and  succeeding  cool 
weather,  did  much  towards  their  recupera 
tion  ;  but  unfortunately  sick-headaches,  which 
87 


88  WALT  WHITMAN 

had  been  occasional  with  Mrs.  Davis,  now 
became  persistent;  her  vitality  was  gone, 
and  her  courage  was  on  the  wane.  In  fact 
she  never  fully  recovered,  nor  did  she  ever 
forget  "that  awful  summer  of  1887." 

But  while  she  was  so  miserable  and  ill 
she  was  not  forgotten  by  her  old  friends, 
who  rallied  at  once  to  her  assistance,  and 
it  was  through  their  thoughtfulness  and 
kind  attentions  that  a  general  and  final  col 
lapse  was  avoided.  None  of  them  had  been 
willing  to  give  her  up  altogether  when  she 
moved  into  the  Mickle  Street  house.  She 
for  her  part  had  never  willingly  neglected 
them;  one  or  another,  understanding  this, 
had  run  in  the  back  way  at  odd  times,  and 
if  by  chance  they  had  found  the  kitchen  in 
her  undisputed  possession,  had  gladly  re 
mained  to  lend  her  a  helping  hand. 

Nor  with  her  multiplicity  of  new  duties 
and  in  her  new  surroundings  had  she  been 
unmindful  of  her  habit  of  protectiveness, 
and  this  house  became,  as  her  own  had  been, 
the  temporary  shelter  for  some  orphan  girl 
or  boy,  some  friendless  woman  or  stranded 
young  man.  Crowded  as  it  was,  the  little 
Whitman  home  could  make  room  for  an 
emergency  case. 

As  the  owner  was  just  now  confined  for 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  89 

some  weeks  to  his  sleeping  apartment,  Mrs. 
Davis  could  lie  upon  the  kitchen  lounge 
when  the  kind  ministrations  of  her  friends 
relieved  her  of  immediate  household  duties; 
then  in  turn  rouse  herself,  drag  herself  up 
stairs  and  attend  to  the  wants  of  the  sick 
man  there.  Her  helpers  were  glad  to  prove 
their  friendship  for  her,  but  it  didn't  reach 
the  extent  of  waiting  upon  the  disabled  poet; 
this  rested  with  her  alone.  Not  that  they 
were  afraid  of  him,  or  that  he  had  ever 
been  rude  or  impolite  to  them,  but  not  one 
of  them  was  exactly  at  ease  in  his  presence. 
By  good  fortune,  at  this  opportune  time 
a  gentleman  and  his  wife  invited  Mrs. 
Davis  to  accompany  them  upon  an  excursion 
to  Southern  California.  At  first  she  de 
clined  the  invitation;  the  distance  seemed  so 
great,  and  Mr.  Whitman  was  so  poorly, 
there  was  no  telling  what  might  happen  dur 
ing  her  absence.  But  she  was  still  pressed 
to  go,  and  unknown  to  her  the  project  was 
broached  to  Mr.  Whitman,  who  highly  ap 
proved  of  it.  Finally  she  accepted  the  prof 
fered  kindness;  her  friends  assisted  her  in 
her  preparations,  and  she  set  off  with 
pleasurable  anticipations.  This  journey  was 
the  one  great  delight  of  her  life,  and  she  re 
turned  much  benefited.  But  how  about  the 


90  WALT  WHITMAN 

good  little  woman  who  had  strongly  urged 
her  going,  who  had  added  her  earnest  per 
suasions  to  those  of  the  others,  and  who  had 
offered  her  own  and  her  daughter's  services 
in  place  of  hers?  Poor  little  woman,  she 
did  her  best  willingly  and  uncomplainingly; 
but  she  did  openly  avow  at  the  expiration 
of  the  three  weeks  that  had  Mary  stayed 
another  day,  she  would  have  gone  insane. 

During  his  housekeeper's  brief  absence, 
Mr.  Whitman  had  found  how  truly  his  home 
was  not  home  without  her.  He  frankly  told 
her  this,  and  acknowledged  to  her  that  no 
one  living  could  fill  her  place  to  him;  that 
others  around  him  irritated  him — uncon 
sciously,  he  knew — while  she  instinctively 
soothed  and  quieted  him,  overwrought  and 
impatient  as  he  might  sometimes  feel. 
Furthermore,  he  presented  her  with  a  nice 
gold  ring. 

Soon  after  her  return,  Walt,  who  was 
quite  himself  once  more,  paid  another  visit 
to  the  Staffords,  and  getting  him  ready  for 
this  trip  was  her  first  work  on  reaching 
home.  "Timber  Creek"  was  his  favorite 
resort,  a  haunt  he  so  thoroughly  enjoyed  that 
it  flashed  across  the  mind  of  a  friend  while 
sauntering  about  with  him  there,  that  it 
would  be  a  capital  idea  to  raise  a  "Walt 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  91 

Whitman  Cottage  Fund,"  and  build  him  a 
little  summer  home  there.  On  cautiously 
sounding  Walt  upon  the  subject,  he  eagerly 
responded:  "Oh,  how  often  I  have  thought 
of  it!" 

So  it  was  decided  to  build  a  cottage  here, 
or  by  the  seaside  somewhere,  where  he  could 
spend  part  of  the  year  with  nature  and 
away  from  the  noise  and  turmoil  of  the 
city.  Eight  hundred  dollars  were  quickly 
raised  towards  the  fund;  the  site  for  build 
ing,  tiles  for  the  chimney  and  plan  by  the 
architect  were  donated;  but  alas,  it  was  seen 
that  it  was  too  late  in  his  life  for  the  scheme 
to  be  feasible,  and  the  money  was  cheerfully 
given  to  him  by  the  contributors  to  be  used 
as  he  thought  best. 

On  this  particular  occasion  Mrs.  Davis 
was  more  than  glad  to  be  alone.  The  par 
lors  were  much  as  the  artists  had  left  them, 
and  a  general  housecleaning  was  instituted. 
And  such  a  cleaning!  Everything  had  to  be 
handled  and  looked  over,  discarded  or 
packed  away.  It  was  a  disheartening  task. 
Dried  paint  and  plaster  were  on  every  side 
and  resisted  all  attempts  at  removal,  as 
though  they  had  learned  the  lesson  of  per 
sistency  from  the  late  sitter;  besides,  some 
repairs  had  to  be  made  against  the  coming 


92  WALT  WHITMAN 

winter,  and  the  stove  had  rusted  in  the 
cellar. 

In  good  time  all  was  accomplished  and 
order  again  restored.  Mr.  Whitman  re 
turned  refreshed,  and  oh,  so  glad  to  get  back 
to  his  own  home  once  more.  But  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course  he  acted  as  though  beside 
himself  for  awhile,  and  the  old  act  of  hunt 
ing  for  lost  or  missing  articles  was  repeated. 
Mrs.  Davis,  however,  who  had  taken  more 
than  one  lesson  from  him,  passed  his  per 
turbation  by  without  apparent  notice.  She 
knew  the  time  was  not  far  in  the  future 
when  rapidly  failing  health  would  altogether 
prevent  his  leaving  home ;  he  would  probably 
be  confined  to  the  upper  part  of  the  house, 
perhaps  to  his  bed;  and  she  thought  it  wise 
to  be  in  readiness  for  whatever  was  in  store. 

Although  he  had  been  situated  so  auspi 
ciously  for  his  comfort,  and  in  a  way  to  at 
tain  the  great  object  he  desired,  Mr.  Whit 
man's  past  four  years  had  not  been  all  sun 
shine.  He  had  had  spells  of  deep  depres 
sion,  days  when  he  felt  no  inclination  to 
come  downstairs,  or  even  to  speak;  and 
during  the  winter  of  this  year  the  dark  cloud 
hovered  more  persistently  above  him  than 
ever  before.  For  one  thing,  there  were 
weeks  when  extremely  cold  or  stormy 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  93 

weather  prevented  his  going  out  of  doors. 
Mrs.  Davis  had  much  sympathy  for  him 
while  the  dreary  mood  lasted,  and  in  many 
ways  endeavored  to  dispel  it.  During  the 
inclement  weather  she  found  in  her  cheery 
canary  bird  a  valued  assistant,  and  knowing 
the  old  man's  fondness  for  the  little  fellow, 
she  would  at  times  stealthily  place  the  cage 
in  his  room,  "and  let  the  sun  shine  out  for 
a  moment,  this  bird  would  flood  the  room 
with  trills  of  melody."  (The  canary  out 
lived  Mr.  Whitman,  and  through  his  long 
sickness,  lasting  from  the  summer  of  1888 
to  the  spring  of  1892,  it  was  always  a  wel 
come  visitor  in  his  room.)  This  would 
act  as  an  inspiration,  and  Mr.  Whitman 
would  often  take  this  time  to  write  to  some 
friend,  always  mentioning  the  singing  of 
the  bird  and  the  shining  of  the  sun. 

"Pleasant  weather  as  I  write  seated  here 
by  the  window,  my  little  canary  singing  like 
mad." 

"Sunny  and  summery  weather  here,  and 
my  canary  is  singing  like  a  house  on  fire." 

"Dull  weather,  the  ground  covered  with 
snow,  but  my  little  bird  is  singing  as  I 
write." 

Good  cheer  may  have  been  another  com 
forting  agent,  for  he  writes:  "We  have 


94  WALT  WHITMAN 

(Mrs.  Davis  has)  just  had  a  baking.  Oh! 
how  I  do  wish  I  could  send  the  dear  frau 
one  of  our  nice  pumpkin  pies,  a  very  little 
ginger,  no  other  spice." 

"A  cold  freezing  day.  Have  had  my 
dinner  of  rare  stewed  oysters,  some  toasted 
Graham  bread,  and  a  cup  of  tea." 

"Have  had  a  bad  spell  of  illness  again, 
but  am  better  to-day.  Have  just  eaten  a 
bit  of  dinner  for  the  first  time  in  over  a 
week — stewed  rabbit  with  a  piece  of 
splendid  home-made  bread,  covered  with 
stew-gravy." 

"Have  just  had  my  dinner — a  great  piece 
of  toasted  Graham  bread,  salted  and  well 
buttered  with  fresh  country  butter,  and  then 
a  lot  of  panned  oysters  dumped  over  it,  with 
hot  broth ;  then  a  nice  cup  custard,  and  a  cup 
of  coffee.  So  if  you  see  in  the  paper  that 
I  am  starving  (as  I  saw  the  other  day), 
understand  how." 

In  speaking  of  Mrs.  Davis  in  a  letter  of 
the  previous  summer,  he  writes :  "Very  hot 
weather  here  continued.  I  am  feeling 
badly,  yet  not  so  badly  as  you  might  fancy. 
I  am  careful  and  Mrs.  Davis  is  very  good 
and  cute." 

"Am  idle  and  monotonous  enough  in  my 
weeks  and  life  here;  but  on  the  whole  am 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  95 

thankful  it  is  no  worse.  My  buying  this 
shanty  and  settling  down  here  on  half,  or 
one-fourth  pay,  and  getting  Mrs.  Davis  to 
cook  for  me,  might  have  been  bettered  by 
my  disposing  some  other  way,  but  I  am 
satisfied  it  is  all  as  well  as  it  is." 

Through  the  winter  Mr.  Whitman  plod 
ded  on  with  his  literary  work,  and  by  spring 
the  parlors  were  once  more  transformed 
into  a  regular  printing  and  mailing  estab 
lishment.  To  these  over-filled  rooms  he 
had  added  an  oil  portrait  of  an  ancestor,  a 
life-size  bust  of  Elias  Hicks,  and  a  seated 
statuette  of  himself.  He  was  very  careful 
of  the  two  latter  works  of  art,  and  to  pro 
tect  them  from  dust  kept  them  partially  en 
cased  in  newspapers.  When  a  caller  once 
slyly  lifted  the  paper  from  the  statuette,  he 
found  a  colony  of  ants  had  made  the  lap  of 
it  their  home.  The  bust  of  Hicks  was  very 
conspicuous,  and  looked  spectral  in  its  paper 
headgear.  Mrs.  Davis  would  occasionally 
remove  the  yellow  and  time-worn  papers, 
and  replace  them  with  clean  ones.  The 
owner  no  doubt  noticed  this,  but  he  had 
ceased  to  be  too  observant  of  some  things, 
and  had  become  more  lenient  where  "Mary" 
was  the  offender.  And  Mary  had  learned 


96  WALT  WHITMAN 

just  how   far  she  could  go  with  impunity. 
In  a  way  their  lives  had  merged  together. 

It  was  a  custom  with  Mr.  Whitman  to 
have  his  manuscripts  set  up  in  type  before 
sending  them  away — even  his  "little  bits" 
of  newspaper  contributions.  This  was  done 
in  a  "quaint  little  printing  office"  in  town, 
the  proprietor  of  which  was  "an  old  fellow 
acquaintance"  of  Walt's.  In  this  matter, 
as  in  all  others,  he  was  very  impatient,  for 
the  moment  anything  was  ready  for  the 
press  he  would  summon  Mrs.  Davis,  regard 
less  of  time,  weather  or  her  own  occupa 
tions,  saying:  "Take  this  to  the  printer's, 
Mary,  and  tell  him  I  want  it  immediately" ; 
and  although  most  of  this  work  was  done 
gratuitously,  the  "old  fellow  acquaintance" 
was  decidedly  accommodating  to  his  hon 
ored  patron,  and  often  laid  other  jobs  aside 
for  his  "odd. bits."  He  was  as  well  always 
courteous  to  Mrs.  Davis.  It  may  be  that 
he  could  not  withstand  her  appeals  for 
haste,  and  was  willing  to  incommode  him 
self  to  save  her  from  fruitless  trips  to  the 
office;  for  he  knew  that  in  an  unreasonably 
short  time  the  poet  would  demand  his 
printed  bit.  In  fact,  so  impatient  would 
the  writer  often  become,  that  to  pacify  him 
his  good  housekeeper  would  make  half  a 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  97 

dozen  trips  to  the  office.  Frequently  he 
would  correct  the  proof  and  return  it  for  a 
second,  perhaps  a  third  or  fourth  printing, 
and  frequently  he  would  say:  "Don't  come 
back  without  it,  Mary;  wait  for  it." 

It  would  have  been  inconsistent  with  Mrs. 
Davis's  jiatural  activity  for  her  to  remain 
sitting  in  a  printing  office  for  an  unlimited 
time,  therefore  she  usually  took  advantage 
of  these  opportunities  to  do  a  little  shopping, 
make  a  friendly  call,  or  even  a  hasty  run  to 
Philadelphia.  The  corrected  copies  were 
never  destroyed,  but,  like  everything  else, 
were  dropped  on  the  floor.  It  was  no 
wonder  that  "to  some  Walt  Whitman's 
house  was  a  sort  of  conglomerated  dime 
museum."  Strangers  who  called  drew  their 
own  inferences  and  reported  accordingly, 
and  in  this  way  contradictory  stories  were 
told  and  sent  out  into  the  world.  Much 
that  was  false  was  believed,  until  the  pre 
vailing  impression  was  that  "he  was  living 
in  poverty  and  neglect." 

He  was  extremely  non-committal,  and  his 
housekeeper  never  intruded  her  knowledge 
upon  anyone,  so  it  was  natural  that  errors 
as  to  his  home  life  should  creep  in.  It  was 
certainly  difficult  to  credit  that  from  sheer 
preference  any  human  being  could  live  in 


98  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  enjoy  the  state  of  disorder  that  was 
found  in  the  Whitman  house,  thanks  to  the 
poet's  peculiarities.  But  this  manner  of 
living  suited  him,  and  in  it  he  found  true 
comfort.  It  must  be  confessed  that  things 
were  outwardly  so  indicative  of  neglect  that 
mistakes  were  bound  to  be  made,  while  little 
of  the  actual  life  was  known  or  understood, 
except  by  intimate  friends.  "The  junk 
shop  jumble  of  those  lonesome  rooms," 
writes  one;  and  again:  "I  found  the  vener 
able  poet  in  his  garret,  living  in  neglect  and 
want,  cooking  soup  in  a  yellow  bowl  on  a 
sheet-iron  stove  nearby."  (S.  T.  Packard 
in  a  magazine  article.}  (The  bowl  merely 
contained  clean  water  for  the  purpose  of 
moistening  the  overheated  atmosphere  of 
the  room.)  Still  further  he  writes:  "When 
ever  his  strength  permitted  he  rose  from  his 
armchair  with  the  rough  bear-robe  thrown 
over  the  back."  It  was  really  a  white  wolf 
skin  robe,  a  present  to  Mr.  Whitman  and  of 
great  service  to  him. 

In  truth  the  elucidation,  explanation  and 
straightening  out  of  the  various  stories  con 
cerning  the  life  of  Walt  Whitman  in  Mickle 
Street  would  require  a  volume  in  itself. 
No  fancifulness,  however,  on  the  part  of 
more  or  less  observant  visitors  could  rival 


IN  MICKLE  STREET  99 

that  of  their  subject,  for  "His  imagination 
could  and  did  convert  the  narrow  walls  of 
the  house  in  Camden  into  boundaries  of 
nations,  seas,  oceans,  mountain-chains,  vistas 
of  Eden,  forests,  cities,  palaces,  landscapes, 
hovels,  homes  of  the  rich,  and  art  galleries, 
so  that  Whitman  was  thus  of  the  great 
world  while  out  of  it." 

"A  peculiar  feature  of  Walt  Whitman's 
rooms,  those  I  mean  which  his  housekeeper 
is  not  allowed  to  put  into  order,  is  the  chaos 
and  confusion  in  which  his  papers  are 
coiled.  The  bump  of  order  does  not  exist 
in  his  cranium."  (William  Sloane  Kennedy.) 

But  visitors  were  left  to  their  own  im 
pressions,  and  these  were  too  often  unjust 
to  the  woman  who  always  did  her  best  to 
prevent  the  confusion  from  growing  still 
worse  confounded. 


XI 
A  SHOCK,  AND  SOME  CHANGES 

"You   have   a  good  housekeeper" — E.   L.   KELLER. 

"Yes,  good,  square — tip-top — devoted  to  me.  Behind 
all  she  has  spunk,  very  sensitive,  the  least  word  sets  her 
off.  A  good  woman." — WALT  WHITMAN. 

"Sunsets  and  sunrises  to  his  soul  were  almost  equal  to 
food  for  his  body." — THOMAS  DONALDSON. 

AT  last  the  long  tedious  winter  ended, 
and  never  was  a  spring  more  welcome 
to  Mr.  Whitman,  for  his  acme  of  enjoy 
ment  was  still  to  be  out  of  doors.  During 
the  months  when  he  was  so  closely  confined 
to  the  house  he  had  become  even  more  de 
pendent  upon  his  housekeeper,  had  more 
often  sought  her  companionship,  had  been 
more  confidential  towards  her,  and  had  re 
peatedly  expressed  his  thankfulness  that  he 
was  in  his  own  domicile,  and  was  so  for 
tunate  as  to  have  her  efficient  services.  He 
would  saunter  more  frequently  into  the 
kitchen  for  a  social  chat,  and  preferred  to 
take  his  meals  there  whenever  he  felt  equal 
to  it.  Altogether,  he  was  much  more 

100 


WALT  WHITMAN?  i 

domesticated.  Still,  he  had  been  able  to  go 
out  sometimes,  had  taken  part  in  a  number 
of  social  gatherings,  where  he  had  enjoyed 
the  pleasure  of  congenial  company,  had  even 
had  "some  jolly  dinners"  in  his  own  house; 
but  nothing  could  compete  with  the  delight 
he  experienced  when  he  was  under  the  blue 
sky.  His  drives  were  absolutely  joyful  to 
him,  and  the  first  one  set  all  his  recuperative 
forces  in  action.  His  rapid  gain  was 
distinctly  perceptible,  and  everything  looked 
hopeful  and  promising. 

On  May  31,  1888 — his  sixty-ninth  birth 
day — a  lawyer,  one  of  his  later  friends 
(Mr.  Thomas  B.  Harned,  Horace  Traubel's 
brother-in-law),  and  one  at  whose  hospitable 
board  he  was  often  found,  gave  a  reception 
and  supper  in  his  honor.  It  was  a  most  en 
joyable  affair. 

But  four  days  later,  after  a  lengthened 
drive  Mr.  Whitman  was  tempted  to  visit  the 
river  bank  to  contemplate  the  setting  sun. 
He  imprudently  prolonged  his  stay  until  the 
evening  dampness  caused  him  to  feel  a  sen 
sation  of  chilliness,  which  increased  mo 
mentarily  until  upon  his  reaching  home  it 
terminated  in  a  real  chill,  followed  by  still 
more  serious  consequences,  for  from  it  re 
sulted  a  paralytic  shock.  It  was  not  a  heavy 


•102  WALT  WHITMAN 

shock,  but  was  quite  violent  enough  to  cause 
alarm.  At  the  first  symptom  Mrs.  Davis  sum 
moned  a  physician,  and  did  everything  in  her 
own  power  to  alleviate  his  sufferings.  He 
was  seriously  ill  throughout  the  night,  and 
next  day  had  two  recurrences  of  the  shock, 
one  in  the  morning  and  the  other  at  noon. 
After  the  third  it  was  believed,  even  by  his 
physicians,  that  the  termination  of  all  was 
near  at  hand.  For  hours  he  was  speechless, 
and  to  every  appearance  in  a  comatose  con 
dition. 

His  friend  Dr.  R.  M.  Bucke  of  Canada 
—  who  had  come  to  Camden  to  attend  the 
birthday  celebration  —  had  not  yet  returned 
home,  and  hurried  at  once  to  the  bedside, 
where  he  was  unremitting  in  his  care  and 
attention.  Dr.  Bucke  was  a  skilful  physi 
cian  and  a  man  of  great  executive  ability, 
and  his  timely  presence  was  a  great  blessing 
to  all.  His  appreciation  of  Mr.  Whitman 
as  a  writer,  and  his  personal  friendship  for 
him,  were  of  long  standing. 

To  the  surprise  and  relief  of  everybody, 
an  unlooked-for  reaction  took  place,  and 
the  sick  man's  first  words  on  recovering  his 
speech  were :  "It  will  soon  pass  over,  and 
if  it  does  not  it  will  be  all  right."  He  was 
carried  to  his  sleeping  apartment,  and  from 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          103 

this  time  to  his  death  he  used  the  front 
parlor  only  as  a  sitting  room. 

Dr.  Bucke  and  Mr.  Donaldson  had  talked 
much  while  their  old  friend  was  lying  in  the 
comatose  state,  and  both  were  troubled  that 
things  were  so  complicated,  and  that  no  one 
in  particular  seemed  to  have  the  least  super 
vision  over  him  or  his  personal  belongings. 
Both  were  surprised  when  they  learned  that 
he  had  never  made  a  will,  and  had  never 
offered  a  suggestion  or  given  any  directions 
in  regard  to  his  literary  affairs.  They  were 
anxious  as  well,  because  they  knew  that  in 
case  of  death,  which  seemed  so  close  at 
hand,  his  papers  and  manuscripts  would  be 
scattered  and  lost.  As  to  home  matters, 
Dr.  Bucke  said  that  Mrs.  Davis  was  worn 
out  and  a  permanent  nurse  must  be  pro 
vided.  This  point  Mr.  Donaldson  cor 
dially  endorsed.  Of  Mr.  Whitman's  pe 
cuniary  standing  the  Doctor  had  no  knowl 
edge,  but  Mr.  Donaldson  was  better  in 
formed  in  regard  to  the  sums  he  had  re 
ceived,  and  after  consultation  both  fully 
agreed  that  the  time  had  come  when  some 
one  must  take  charge  of  affairs  and  no 
longer  allow  them  to  run  on  in  the  old  hap 
hazard  way. 

They  decided  to  talk  with  Mrs.   Davis, 


io4  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  upon  their  doing  this  she  gave  them  a 
correct,  full  and  truthful  statement  of  the 
facts  of  the  case.  She  could  well  enlighten 
them  on  the  subject  of  outgoings,  and  both 
men  were  genuinely  astonished  to  learn  that 
Walt  Whitman  had  never  contributed  one 
farthing  towards  the  maintenance  of  the 
house, — for  repairs,  supplies,  furniture  or 
fuel.  She  told  them  that  while  so  many 
had  been  solicitous  of  Mr.  Whitman's  com 
fort  and  interests,  she  felt  aggrieved  that  no 
one  had  ever  exhibited  the  least  considera 
tion  for  her;  that  she  had  spoken  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  George  Whitman  a  number  of  times, 
and  they  had  assured  her  that  Walt  was  in 
a  position  to  meet  all  expenses  of  the  house, 
and  to  the  best  of  her  belief  they  both  sup 
posed  that  he  was  doing  this,  though  neither 
had  made  any  inquiries  of  her.  She  said 
that  in  addition  to  her  giving  her  time  as 
general  servant  to  all,  her  funds  were 
rapidly  diminishing,  her  goods  going  to  rack 
and  ruin,  her  health  failing;  and  she  felt 
that  she  could  bear  the  burden  no  longer. 
She  mentioned  the  promises  Walt  had  made, 
and  added  that  she  did  not  doubt  that  in  his 
way  of  thinking,  and  of  doing  things,  he 
still  intended  to  deal  honestly  and  honor 
ably  by  her;  that  she  had  endeavored  to  talk 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          105 

with  him  and  come  to  a  satisfactory  under 
standing,  until  she  was  convinced  that  he 
avoided  the  subject  purposely.  She  felt 
that  in  no  way  was  she  secured,  and  it  was 
a  positive  fact  that  two  years  more  would 
bankrupt  her.  What  she  asked  was  a 
settlement  on  the  spot,  and  that  someone 
might  be  found  to  take  her  place. 

Take  her  place!  Was  there  a  woman 
upon  earth  who  could  or  would  do  this?  It 
was  a  proposition  that  neither  of  her  audi 
tors  would  consider;  up  to  this  time  the 
thought  of  her  leaving  had  never  entered 
their  minds;  indeed,  no  one  had  ever  stopped 
to  think  that  she  might  in  time  wear  out 
and  be  obliged  to  give  up,  or  perhaps  get 
discouraged  and  go  of  her  own  free  will. 
They  urged  her  to  abandon  such  an  idea. 
What  would  the  Mickle  Street  house  be 
without  her?  The  mere  suggestion  was  the 
extreme  of  cruelty,  for  the  sick  man,  al 
though  a  little  better  at  present,  was  too  low 
for  any  change,  especially  one  that  would 
touch  him  so  closely.  Dr.  Bucke  gave  her 
his  word  that  he  would  be  personally  re 
sponsible  for  all  she  had  spent,  and  for 
proper  payment  for  her  services  as  house 
keeper  both  in  the  past  and  the  future;  he 
told  her  that  her  work  would  be  lightened 


io6  WALT  WHITMAN 

immeasurably,  as  a  regular  nurse  was  to  be 
engaged;  and  that  in  case  Mr.  Whitman 
should  die  before  matters  were  settled,  her 
interests  should  be  carefully  looked  after. 
Relying  on  this  promise,  she  remained. 

In  a  few  days  Mr.  Whitman's  friends 
spoke  to  him  and  proposed  that  out  of  his 
bank  account,  which  had  grown  to  some 
thousands  of  dollars,  he  should  hereafter 
purchase  his  own  wood,  pay  for  one-half  the 
other  fuel,  keep  the  house  in  repair,  and 
settle  his  private  expenditures,  to  all  of 
which  he  gave  a  ready  and  willing  assent. 
Next  day  they  advised  his  making  a  will, 
which  he  did,  and  it  is  known  that  in  this 
he  made  some  provision  for  Mrs.  Davis, 
but  its  full  contents  were  never  disclosed,  as 
he  wrote  it  himself.  On  learning  that  ac 
cording  to  Jersey  law  a  woman  could  be  the 
executor  of  an  estate,  he  said  it  was  his 
wish  and  desire  that  his  esteemed  sister-in- 
law,  Louise  Whitman,  should  close  his. 
(This  will  was  replaced  by  one  made  in 
December,  1891,  during  his  last  sickness.) 

In  regard  to  his  literary  matters,  it  was 
thought  best  that  they  should  be  placed  in 
the  hands  of  three  executors,  Dr.  Bucke 
being  one. 

When  it  was  made  known  that  in  future 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          107 

Mr.  Whitman  was  to  have  a  regular  nurse, 
some  of  his  young  admirers  volunteered  to 
solicit  a  monthly  contribution  from  his 
numerous  friends  to  meet  this  expense.  The 
patient  made  some  inquiries  regarding  the 
nurse  fund,  and  on  being  told  that  it  was  all 
right  and  attended  to,  never  alluded  to  the 
subject  again.  The  task  of  keeping  the 
fund  up  fell  to  Horace  Traubel;  for  when 
it  was  first  started  people  subscribed  under 
the  impression  that  it  was  a  temporary  mat 
ter,  that  Mr.  Whitman's  life  hung  on  a 
thread,  and  that  they  would  only  be  called 
upon  once  or  twice ;  so  all  ran  smoothly  for 
a  while.  But  as  months  merged  into  years 
some  donors  became  tired  of  giving,  while 
others  found  themselves  unable  to  continue. 
Mr.  Traubel  was  indefatigable  in  his  en 
deavors  to  serve  his  friend.  As  one  sub 
scriber  after  another  fell  out,  he  called  upon 
people  or  wrote  to  them  in  order  to  fill  the 
vacant  places.  Besides  this  matter,  in  the 
four  years  in  which  he  was  connected  with 
the  poet  he  did  much  writing  and  correspond 
ing  for  him,  and  was  of  great  service  to 
him. 

The  sick  man  improved  slowly,  and  when 
there  were  no  longer  any  indications  of  a 
relapse  and  everything  had  been  satis- 


io8  WALT  WHITMAN 

factorily  arranged,  Dr.  Bucke  returned  to 
his  home;  not  however  until  he  had  again 
talked  with  Mrs.  Davis  and  had  once  more 
assured  her  that  full  justice  should  be  done, 
and  that  she  need  no  longer  feel  uncertain  as 
to  her  own  well-being. 

While  Mr.  Whitman  was  so  very  ill, 
there  was  no  difficulty  in  securing  a  profes 
sional  nurse.  The  first,  a  gentlemanly 
middle-aged  man  named  Musgrove,  left 
when  the  patient  had  in  a  measure  regained 
his  normal  condition.  Other  nurses  were 
in  turn  engaged,  but  the  place  was  so  un 
desirable,  the  duties  so  varied  and  uncon 
genial,  accommodations  so  lacking  and  the 
remuneration  so  small,  that  after  a  short 
trial  each  one  left,  all  of  them  testifying  to 
the  housekeeper's  goodness  to  them,  and  to 
her  unselfish  surrender  of  herself  to  their 
patient. 

After  Mr.  Musgrove's  first  few  weeks 
there  was  not  much  regular  nursing,  and  at 
Mr.  Whitman's  request  Mrs.  Davis  did 
most  of  this;  but  there  remained  the  heavy 
lifting  and  hard  work.  The  wood  was 
bought  in  cord  lengths  and  thrown  through 
the  slanting  door  into  the  cellar,  where  it 
was  sawed  and  split.  The  cellar  was  not 
only  cold  and  damp,  but  the  wood  was  often 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          109 

wet  and  clumsy  to  handle.  Besides  sawing, 
splitting  and  carrying  the  wood  up  two 
flights  of  stairs,  the  nurse  was  expected  to 
do  sufficient  carpentering  to  keep  the  house 
in  repair,  shovel  snow  in  winter,  run  er 
rands  for  his  patient,  and  later  wheel  him 
about  the  streets  in  an  invalid  chair.  This 
chair  was  purchased  from  the  proceeds  of  a 
birthday  dinner  given  for  the  poet  in  his 
own  city,  May  31,  1889.  One  hundred  and 
twenty-five  dollars  were  donated  on  the  oc 
casion,  and  as  Mr.  Whitman  had  now  be 
come  too  decrepit  to  use  his  carriage,  that 
and  the  horse  were  disposed  of,  and  the 
wheel-chair  substituted. 

There  was  so  much  trouble  in  getting  a 
nurse  who  cared  to  remain,  that  late  in  the 
fall  following  the  shock  Dr.  Bucke  sent  a 
young  Canadian  to  fill  the  place.  This 
young  man,  who  desired  to  study  medicine, 
had  accepted  the  position  with  that  object  in 
view,  and  coming  through  personal  interests 
alone  he  was  naturally  much  engrossed  in 
his  own  affairs,  and  never  lost  sight  of  his 
own  advantages.  He  saw  that  by  embrac 
ing  this  opportunity  he  could  attain  the  nec 
essary  knowledge,  keep  a  roof  over  his 
head  (one  that  generally  leaked,  but  this 
did  not  dampen  his  ardor),  earn  his  board 


no  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  clothing,  and  have  besides  the  great 
benefit  of  attending  lectures  in  Philadelphia. 

During  the  five  months  between  the  shock 
and  the  advent  of  the  student  nurse,  Mr. 
Whitman  had  resumed  his  writing,  and  his 
bedchamber  became  his  sanctum.  Before 
his  illness  Mrs.  Davis  had  managed  to  keep 
the  upper  portion  of  the  house  in  passable 
order.  Now  it  was  gradually  assuming  the 
late  appearance  of  the  parlors,  for  here  at 
least  Mr.  Whitman  had  full  control,  and 
would  brook  no  interference  whatever. 
When  the  nurse  found  that  his  best  en 
deavors  to  bring  about  a  change  in  this 
merely  meant  wasted  time,  he  quietly  went 
his  own  way  and  left  his  patient  to  do  the 
same.  He  confessed  that  he  thought  him 
"the  most  singular  mortal"  he  had  ever 
met,  and  said:  "When  I  was  first  employed 
he  would  chat  ten  minutes  at  a  time  with 
me;  now  we  pass  about  twenty  words  a 
day.  Keeps  his  own  business  to  himself,  and 
talks  but  little  even  with  his  intimates." 

The  young  man's  application  to  his 
studies  appeared  so  commendable  to  Mrs. 
Davis  that  she  at  once  set  about  trying  to 
forward  his  efforts.  The  only  method  she 
saw  was  to  do  his  washing,  ironing  and 
mending,  that  the  small  weekly  sum  thus 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          in 

saved  might  go  towards  purchasing  books 
he  needed  and  could  not  afford  to  buy.  He 
was  delighted  to  own  the  volumes  so  ob 
tained,  and  would  pore  over  them  for  hours 
at  a  time,  totally  unmindful  of  the  fact  that 
the  real  donor  was  performing  many  duties 
that  should  justly  have  fallen  to  him.  Hav 
ing  no  room  of  his  own,  the  kitchen  was 
necessarily  his  study,  and  in  a  letter  he 
writes:  "Mr.  Whitman  calls  me  by  knock 
ing  on  the  floor,  I  usually  being  in  the  room 
below." 

Mrs.  Davis  always  prepared  the  invalid's 
meals,  carried  them  to  him,  and  if  possible 
sat  with  him  when  he  partook  of  them. 
These  were  their  times  for  exchanging  con 
fidences  and  chatting  on  home  topics. 
"More  than  anyone  else  was  she  his  confi 
dant,  and  deserved  to  be."  (Thomas  Don 
aldson.} 

He  was  interested  in  simple  things,  and 
little  home  talks  never  wearied  him.  He 
used  few,  plain  and  ordinary  words  in  con 
versation,  and  his  manner  was  simplicity  it 
self.  Mrs.  Davis  never  spoke  of  anything 
unpleasant  to  him,  and  was  always  on  guard 
lest  others  might  do  so;  she  was  a  good 
listener,  not  a  loquacious  talker,  and  her 
voice,  naturally  soft,  had  a  soothing  effect. 


ii2  WALT  WHITMAN 

His  literary  matters  were  well  looked 
after,  and  he  seldom  called  his  nurse  except 
for  some  actual  need.  Such  comments,  how 
ever,  as  the  following  are  misleading:  "He 
treats  his  household  as  by  a  holy  law, 
Mrs.  Davis  his  housekeeper  never  finds 
him  indifferent,  condescending  or  morose. 
His  spirit  ignores  all  petty  household  wor 
ries  .  .  ."  ("In  Re  Walt  Whitman.") 

Mrs.  Davis  also  sat  with  the  sick  man,  or 
within  call,  whether  his  nurse  had  gone  on 
an  errand  for  him,  or  to  Philadelphia  on  his 
own  account.  And  yet  the  student-nurse 
made  no  sign  of  reciprocating  her  many 
kindnesses  to  him;  took  everything  she  did 
for  him  as  his  just  due;  accepted  any  and 
every  service  she  might  render  him,  but 
most  emphatically  refused  to  give  one  in 
return.  He  left  Camden  the  last  of 
October,  1889,  and  returned  to  Canada.  He 
parted  both  with  Mr.  Whitman  and  Mrs. 
Davis  on  the  most  friendly  terms,  saying 
that  much  as  he  disliked  to  leave  them,  his 
own  worldly  future  depended  upon  other 
work  than  nursing. 


"A  time-worn  loo\  and  scent  of  oa\  attach   both 
the  chair  and  the  person  occupying  it" 
(Letter  from  Walt  Whitman) 


to 


XII 
ANCHORED 

"Am   anchored   helpless    here   all  day,   but   get   along 

fairly.     Fortunately   have   a  placid,  quiet,  even,  solitary 

thread  quite   strong   in   weft   of   my  disposition." 

— WALT  WHITMAN  (Aug.   22,    1890). 

"Whitman's  stalwart  form  itself  luxuriates  in  a  curious 
great  cane-seat  chair,  with  posts  and  rungs  like  a  ship's 
spars;  altogether  the  most  imposing  heavy-timbered, 
broad-armed  and  broad-bottomed  edifice  of  the  kind  pos 
sible.  It  was  the  gift  of  the  young  son  and  daughter  of 
Thomas  Donaldson  of  Philadelphia,  and  was  made  espe 
cially  for  the  poet." — WILLIAM  SLOANE  KENNEDY. 

THE  long  confinement  to  his  room 
covering  more  than  half  of  '88,  and 
extending  into  the  next  year,  had  forced 
Mr.  Whitman  to  relinquish  his  summer  and 
autumn  drives.  This  was  the  one  thing  to 
which  he  could  not  be  reconciled;  the  one 
thing  to  which  he  had  looked  forward  so 
wistfully  all  the  previous  winter  and  spring. 
Alas !  the  fatal  river  drive  was  his  last.  As 
already  explained  the  horse  and  carriage, 
now  useless  to  him,  were  disposed  of,  and 
the  wheel-chair  took  their  place.  This 
chair  was  indeed  a  boon  to  him,  and  he  ap- 


ii4  WALT  WHITMAN 

predated  the  thoughtful  kindness  of  his 
friends  in  the  appropriate  gift. 

As  soon  as  his  strength  would  permit, 
which  was  some  months  after  his  attack, 
he  had  resumed  his  writing.  He  had  also 
read  his  papers  and  periodicals,  and  thus 
managed  to  wear  the  long  days  through. 
The  cheery  canary  had  done  his  part  in 
helping  to  beguile  the  irksome  hours,  and 
Watch,  the  coach  dog,  sure  of  a  friendly 
greeting  had  made  a  daily  call.  Towards 
spring  the  time  had  been  less  tedious,  and 
in  March  the  invalid  had  become  sufficiently 
strong  to  be  assisted  downstairs.  At  this 
he  was  highly  encouraged,  for  he  realized 
the  advancement  he  had  made. 

While  he  had  been  so  low  in  the  past 
summer,  Mrs.  Davis  had  once  more  insti 
tuted  a  regular  cleaning  and  renovating  of 
the  parlors.  This  he  must  have  noticed,  but 
he  made  no  remarks  in  regard  to  it.  He 
was  led  now  to  his  favorite  window,  where 
stood  his  armchair  with  the  white  wolf-skin 
thrown  over  the  back;  in  this  he  was  placed, 
and  day  after  day  sat  contentedly  anchored. 
It  was  a  sad  disappointment  to  him  when 
ailments  occasionally  prevented  his  coming 
downstairs;  here  he  preferred  taking  his 
evening  meal  and  meeting  his  friends. 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          115 

Writing  materials  were  always  at  hand  on 
a  small  shelf  under  the  window  sill,  but  these 
he  used  only  to  jot  down  passing  thoughts 
or  to  indite  a  friendly  line. 

Soon  he  could  come  into  the  kitchen, 
where  he  often  chose  to  dine.  Sometimes 
his  friends  would  join  him  in  a  "jolly  din 
ner"  in  the  dear  old  place;  but  things  had 
changed  —  were  but  a  semblance  of  what 
had  been  —  and  his  desire  to  remain  un 
disturbed  and  with  his  housekeeper  alone 
during  meal  times  grew  upon  him. 

During  the  summer  and  fall  he  had  in 
cidental  outings  with  his  nurse  (Eddie 
Wilkins,  the  student).  The  first  few  were 
necessarily  of  short  duration  and  slow  of 
motion,  then  as  his  strength  returned  they 
were  lengthened,  and  he  realized  the  pleas 
ure  in  store  for  him  should  his  life  be  pro 
longed  another  year. 

After  each  ride  Mrs.  Davis  met  him  with 
some  light  refreshment,  after  which  all  he 
desired  was  rest  —  a  long  rest,  sometimes  of 
several  days. 

It  wyas  impossible  to  receive  one-half  of 
the  people  who  called  upon  him — indeed, 
this  would  have  been  a  tax  upon  a  strong 
man.  Mrs.  Davis  always  answered  the 
door  bell;  and  it  was  no  uncommon  thing 


n6  WALT  WHITMAN 

for  him  to  tell  her  that  as  he  wanted  to  have 
a  day  of  unbroken  tranquillity,  no  one  was 
to  be  admitted  to  his  room  —  excepting  al 
ways  a  number  of  dear  old  friends,  and  his 
ever-welcome  brother  and  good  sister-in- 
law. 

Strange  that  these  were  often  the  days 
when  visitors  would  flock  there,  the  great 
majority  of  whom  would  leave  deeply  dis 
appointed,  and  for  this  cause  the  inoffensive 
housekeeper  —  she  who  had  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  everything — incurred  the  dis 
pleasure,  even  the  enmity,  of  some  people. 
So  little  was  known  to  the  world  at  large 
of  the  poet's  private  life  and  of  his  state  of 
health,  that  strangers  would  sometimes  go 
to  certain  persons  in  Philadelphia  to  inquire 
how  they  might  have  an  audience  with  him. 
This  condition  of  things  did  not  develop 
until  after  the  illness  of  the  previous  year, 
and  much  trouble  resulted  from  it,  as 
visitors  would  show  their  cards  or  letters  of 
introduction  and  insist  upon  going  to  his 
room.  Friends  living  either  in  Philadel 
phia  or  in  Camden,  especially  those  who 
saw  much  of  the  poet,  should  have  been 
mindful  that  so  sick  a  man  might  not  at  all 
times  feel  inclined  to  talk  with  strange 
people,  or  might  not  be  equal  to  it  if  he 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          117 

were  so  inclined.  But  his  wishes  or  needs 
were  not  conformed  with,  and  in  some  cases 
the  protestations  of  Mrs.  Davis  were  wholly 
disregarded. 

She  invariably  met  each  individual 
pleasantly  and  never  spoke  hastily  or 
abruptly  to  anyone ;  she  always  gave  civil 
answers  to  their  questions;  often  went  to 
Mr.  Whitman  to  intercede  for  them;  and 
it  was  through  her  influence  alone  that 
many  were  admitted  to  his  presence.  But 
if  he  was  not  disposed  to  yield,  her  best  ef 
forts  would  be  in  vain,  and  the  only  alterna 
tive  left  her  was  to  offend  others  instead  of 
him. 

During  the  seven  years  she  was  with 
him  she  had  numberless  strange  or  even 
unique  experiences,  but  having  quick  per 
ception  she  was  seldom  deceived.  Some  peo 
ple  would  haughtily  demand  an  audience  with 
the  poet;  others  would  compromise  by  in 
terviewing  her,  while  the  more  determined 
would  force  their  way  in  uninvited  and  posi 
tively  refuse  to  leave  the  house  until  they 
had  spoken  with  the  owner.  Many  brought 
gifts  which  they  wished  to  present  in  person; 
and  veterans  came  asking  that  they  might 
only  clasp  the  hand  that  had  ministered  to 
them  so  tenderly  at  some  time  during  the 


n8  WALT  WHITMAN 

civil  war.  Nor  were  souvenir  fiends  want 
ing,  and  many  trinkets,  ornaments  and  keep 
sakes  belonging  to  Mrs.  Davis  were  sur 
reptitiously  carried  off. 

A  few  people  spoke  slightingly  of  the 
housekeeper,  but  never  in  Mr.  Whitman's 
presence,  for  "Mary"  was  "Mary"  to  him 
at  all  times  and  in  all  places. 

A  number  who  had  rendered  him  services 
— those  in  particular  who  within  the  last 
year  or  two  had  given  money  towards  his 
support  (as  was  supposed) — were  indignant 
that  Mrs.  Davis  should  presume  to  speak 
so  decidedly  to  them,  believing  that  were 
their  names  only  taken  to  Walt  he  would  be 
delighted  to  see  them.  And  yet  a  visit  to 
the  poet  in  his  own  house  was  to  some  people 
a  decided  disappointment,  even  when  they 
were  able  to  see  and  talk  with  him.  They 
did  not  find  what  they  had  been  looking  for, 
something  based  on  idle  rumor  and  curious 
expectation,  something  extraordinary  or  even 
outlandish. 

One  of  the  most  noticeable  things  about 
him,  says  one,  was  "an  absence  of  all  effort 
to  make  a  good  impression,  or  of  posing." 
Instead  of  finding  a  gruff  old  fossil,  or 
bearding  a  lion  in  his  den,  they  found  an 
everyday,  quiet,  dignified  man. 


XIII 
WARREN  FRITZINGER 

"He  (Mr.  Wilkins]  left  Mr.  Whitman  in  October,  1889, 
and  was  succeeded  as  nurse  by  Warren  Fritzinger,  a 
young  man  of  twenty-five,  and  a  son  of  Mary  O.  Davis, 
his  housekeeper  and  friend.  Mr.  Fritzinger  (W  arry} 
remained  with  Mr.  Whitman  until  his  death,  a  faithful, 
earnest  man." — THOMAS  DONALDSON. 

"I  get  along  well,  am  comfortable,  have  a  fair  appetite, 
and  keep  a  good  oak  fire." — WALT  WHITMAN. 

WHILE  the  question  of  getting  another 
nurse  was  pending,  Harry  and  War 
ren  Fritzinger  returned  to  Camden.  It  was 
a  mutual  surprise,  for  the  brothers  had  lost 
trace  of  each  other  and  came  from  different 
parts  of  the  world.  It  was  indeed  a  joyful 
reunion,  and  though  seven  years  had  elapsed 
since  they  had  seen  their  foster-mother,  their 
love  had  not  abated  and  each  brought  her 
a  substantial  gift  in  money.  Coming  from 
California,  Warren's  gift  was  in  gold — 
double  eagles. 

They   remembered  Walt  Whitman   as  a 
man,  but  neither  of  them  had  read  his  poetry, 
and  although  their  mother  had  mentioned 
119 


120  WALT  WHITMAN 

the  change  at  the  time  it  was  made,  they 
knew  nothing  of  the  way  in  which  she  was 
living,  and  both  were  much  alarmed  at  her 
altered  appearance.  Not  at  all  satisfied,  they 
urged  her  to  resign  her  position;  to  move 
into  a  more  fitting  place,  and  let  them  take 
care  of  her. 

But  believing,  as  did  others,  that  Mr. 
Whitman's  life  was  drawing  to  a  close,  she 
pleaded  that  she  could  not  reconcile  her 
mind  to  deserting  him  in  his  helplessness. 
She  enlightened  them  in  regard  to  financial 
matters,  saying  that  she  thought  it  wiser  to 
wait  quietly  where  she  was  until  things  were 
adjusted.  Again,  the  house  practically  con 
tained  her  possessions  only,  and  these  she 
could  not  think  of  moving  at  a  time  like  the 
present;  the  sick  man  could  not  abide  the 
confusion.  She  furthermore  said  that  the 
house  had  become  homelike  to  her,  that  all 
of  Mr.  Whitman's  friends  were  kind  to  her, 
especially  his  sister-in-law,  who  made  weekly 
visits,  always  bringing  something  with  her; 
that  she  had  implicit  confidence  in  Mrs. 
Whitman,  and  knew  that  should  any  contro 
versy  arise  in  the  settling  of  affairs,  this  up 
right  and  capable  woman  would  be  on  her 
side.  Again,  she  had  pledged  her  word  to 
stay;  it  was  expected  of  her;  and  yet  the 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          121 

strongest  argument  came  from  her  own  kind 
heart — the  old  man  needed  her. 

In  her  many  talks  with  Warren  she  told 
him  how  she  dreaded  the  coming  of  another 
strange  nurse,  even  though  his  term  of  serv 
ice  was  likely  to  be  so  short;  and  as  she 
could  not  see  how  a  few  months,  at  most, 
could  make  any  material  difference  to  him, 
she  did  wish  that  he  would  make  up  his 
mind  to  apply  for  the  position.  Mr.  Whit 
man's  friends  and  literary  executors  at  once 
caught  at  this,  and  all  brought  their  influ 
ence  to  bear,  pressing  the  place  upon  him 
and  promising  that,  should  he  remain  until 
Mr.  Whitman's  demise,  they  would  stand 
by  him  and  see  him  placed  in  some  good 
way  of  earning  a  livelihood. 

The  situation  had  no  inducements  for  him; 
it  was  in  fact  decidedly  distasteful;  but  feel 
ing  assured  that  it  couldn't  really  affect  his 
worldly  career,  he  consented.  He  was  not 
one  to  do  things  by  halves,  and  from  the  day 
he  undertook  this  work  until  the  last  hour  of 
his  patient's  life,  he  performed  his  manifold 
duties  in  a  cheerful,  willing  and  most  capa 
ble  manner. 

He  loved  the  sea,  with  its  broad  spaces, 
and  soon  the  narrow  limits  of  the  little 
house  became  intolerable  to  him.  This  he 


122  WALT  WHITMAN 

did  not  betray,  and  being  naturally  light- 
hearted  and  always  appearing  happy,  few 
who  met  him  realized  the  trial  he  was  un 
dergoing.  He  was  honest  and  straightfor 
ward,  and  believed  everyone  to  be  the  same. 

Mr.  Whitman,  who  had  taken  to  him  at 
once,  was  delighted  when  he  was  told  that 
this  bright  "sailor  boy"  was  to  be  his  next 
attendant.  Warren  was  indeed  a  blessing, 
not  only  to  the  patient,  but  to  his  mother, 
for  he  was  always  ready  to  assist  her  and  to 
help  out  in  times  of  need.  But,  better  than 
all,  he  soon  acquired  a  way  of  quietly  man 
aging  the  "good  gray  poet"  that  no  other 
living  mortal  ever  attained.  When  it  was 
decided  that  massage  would  benefit  Mr. 
Whitman,  he  took  a  course  in  a  Philadelphia 
hospital  and  became  a  professional  masseur, 
as  well  as  wood-sawyer  and  amateur  car 
penter. 

Good  places  were  offered  him,  but  he  was 
bound,  and  could  accept  none  of  them.  One 
excellent  position  was  kept  open  for  months 
and  he  was  advised  by  his  friends  not  to  let 
so  good  an  opportunity  go  by,  but  Mr.  Whit 
man  lingered  on,  and  the  place  was  filled.  In 
going  to  sea  as  a  boy,  Warren  was  at  a  dis 
advantage  on  land.  This  he  realized,  and  in 
the  situation  thus  surrendered  he  had  seen 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          123 

a  way  in  which  he  could  retrieve  his  lost 
time. 

Walt's  literary  attainments  and  associa 
tions  were  pleasant  enough  to  encounter,  but 
they  were  of  no  material  benefit  to  him,  and 
the  remuneration  was  much  smaller  than  he 
had  ever  before  received.  This  was  a  great 
drawback,  for  having  met  a  young  lady 
whom  he  hoped  to  marry,  he  felt  inclined 
and  perfectly  able  to  better  himself. 

As  his  predecessor's  prediction,  that  Mr. 
Whitman  would  not  outlive  the  year,  was  not 
verified,  and  New  Year's  Day,  1890,  not 
only  found  him  alive  but  in  a  much  im 
proved  condition,  with  no  indications  of 
immediate  danger,  it  came  home  to  Warren 
that  he*  had  unfortunately  tied  himself  to  an 
uncertainty,  and  that  his  term  of  service 
might  be  years  instead  of  weeks.  There 
seemed  no  present  help,  however,  so  he 
philosophically  accepted  the  conditions  and 
stuck  to  his  work  with  manly  courage. 

Warren's  engagement  commenced  so  late 
in  the  season  that  Mr.  Whitman  had  but  a 
few  outings  before  another  winter  shut  him 
in.  He  had  however  two  or. three  trips  to 
the  river  bank,  which  he  enjoyed  greatly; 
all  the  more  because  they  led  to  conversa 
tions  on  ships  and  ocean  life.  Warren  was 


i24  WALT  WHITMAN 

a  fluent  and  interesting  talker,  which  made 
him  an  enviable  companion  for  anyone  who, 
like  the  poet,  was  an  ardent  lover  of  free 
dom  and  the  boundless  deep.  He  often  re 
ferred  to  Warren  as  his  "sailor  boy,"  and 
said  that  he  was  of  much  service  to  him 
when  he  was  at  a  loss  about  the  names  of 
different  parts  of  a  ship.  The  young  "sailor 
boy"  had  a  vein  of  poetry  in  his  own  com 
position,  and  although  he  might  not  be  quali 
fied  to  weigh  the  bard's  words  and  their 
import  in  the  same  scale  with  some  others, 
he  got  a  clear  insight  into  their  meaning. 

The  sick  man  had  his  ups  and  downs  dur 
ing  this  winter,  but  was  seldom  confined  to 
his  bed  more  than  a  week  at  a  time.  When 
he  was  at  all  able,  he  was  helped  downstairs 
to  sit  by  the  window.  He  spent  more  time 
in  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Davis,  and  took  a 
lively  interest  in  anything  she  might  be  do 
ing;  he  talked  to  the  birds,  made  a  playmate 
of  the  cat,  had  fellowship  with  the  dog — in 
short  his  home  life  resembled  that  of  any 
old  man  in  his  own  home  and  with  his  own 
kin.  He  would  read  and  write  a  little  at  a 
time,  or  glance  over  his  papers,  but  there 
was  a  perceptible  falling  off  in  all  ways,  and 
his  domestic  life  became  more  and  more  dear 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          125 

to  him;  it  had  no  jars,  ran  smoothly  along, 
and  was  to  him  his  world. 

He  was  still  just  as  inflexible  about  having 
his  own  way.  However,  it  had  so  long  been 
a  part  of  his  housekeeper's  life  to  yield  to 
this,  that  he  seldom  had  to  insist  upon  any 
thing.  He  would  usually  retire  early  now, 
though  this  was  not  a  stated  rule.  He  might 
be  in  bed  by  eight  o'clock,  or  up  until  mid 
night,  and  he  was  as  ingenious  as  ever  in 
making  work  for  other  people.  As  his  mas 
sage  was  to  be  the  last  thing  before  sleep, 
Warren  could  not  calculate  upon  his  own  do 
ings  for  a  single  evening.  He  might  go  out 
before  dark,  make  a  call  or  do  an  errand, 
then  hasten  home  to  wait  up  two  or  three 
hours  or  even  longer ;  or  on  going  out  and 
remaining  but  a  little  beyond  eight,  would 
on  his  return  find  his  patient  in  bed  groaning, 
and  saying  that  he  had  been  suffering  severe 
ly  for  his  rubbing,  or  "pummelling,"  as  he 
called  it.  Suffice  it  to  say  he  was  as  exacting 
with  his  willing  nurse  as  he  had  always  been 
with  his  faithful  housekeeper.  During  the 
two  and  a  half  years  that  Warren  was  with 
him,  he  had  but  a  single  untrammelled  eve 
ning,  for  Mr.  Whitman  wanted  him  always 
near,  even  when  no  service  was  required. 
And  so  things  jogged  on  satisfactorily  to 


126  WALT  WHITMAN 

friends  and  admirers,  but  tediously  indeed 
to  the  young  marine. 

Horace  Traubel  writes:  "Warren  Frit- 
zinger,  who  attends  upon  Mr.  Whitman  and 
is  provided  for  through  a  fund  steadily  re 
plenished  by  a  group  of  Walt's  lovers — and 
who  finds  his  services  a  delight — attests  that 
whatsoever  the  hour  or  necessity,  Whitman's 
most  intimate  humor  is  to  the  last  degree 
composed  and  hopeful."  ("In  Re  Walt 
Whitman")  Others  have  written  of  this 
period  as  one  of  grave  neglect;  a  time  when 
the  aged  man  was  deprived  of  the  care  and 
comfort  so  essential  to  one  in  his  condition. 
They  underrated  both  his  means  and  the  at 
tention  lavished  upon  him. 

"He  is  old  and  poor,"  says  one,  "and 
were  it  not  for  small  contributions  from  time 
to  time  from  friends  who  sympathize  with 
him  in  his  poverty,  age  and  helplessness, 
would  actually  suffer  for  the  bare  necessaries 
of  life.  For  many  years  his  income  from  all 
sources  has  not  exceeded  an  average  of  two 
hundred  dollars,  which  to  a  person  in  his 
helpless  condition  goes  but  a  little  way  even 
in  supplying  the  roughest  and  commonest  of 
food  and  care."  And  again:  "His  wants  are 
not  many,  for  he  lives  simply  from  necessity 
and  choice ;  but  in  his  old  age  and  constantly 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          127 

failing  health,  he  needs  that  comfort  and  at 
tendance  which  he  has  not  the  means  to 
procure." 

The  poet  himself  was  neither  discontented 
nor  dull.  As  his  infirmities  brought  new 
privations,  he  bowed  to  the  inevitable.  He 
missed  the  outdoor  life  keenly,  but  was  grate 
ful  for  such  trips  as  he  could  get  under  War 
ren's  care.  As  for  indoors,  conversations 
if  protracted  wore  upon  him,  and  he  could 
no  longer  take  part  in  them  with  anything  of 
his  old  enthusiasm  and  vim.  But  there  was 
no  fundamental  infirmity  of  mind,  no  child 
ishness  of  senility;  he  was  essentially  young 
in  his  habits,  thought  and  manner,  and  re 
mained  so  until  his  death.  Sometimes,  in 
deed,  the  flame  of  mental  energy  rose  high 
again;  and  it  was  never  extinguished. 

"The  body  was  fading;  the  vital  parts 
seemed  reluctant  to  die  even  in  their  own  ex 
haustion.  The  soul,  the  mind,  the  man  were 
there,  and  at  times  in  full  vigor,  while  the 
case  was  wrecked.  Grandly  and  clearly  his 
mentality  stood  above  the  slowly  straining 
and  wasting  body."  (Thomas  Donaldson.) 

But  others  suffered  with  and  through  him. 
Warren  had  relinquished  hope  after  hope, 
had  on  several  occasions  abandoned  his  re 
solve  to  better  himself  and  get  married;  his 


128  WALT  WHITMAN 

mother's  entreaties  and  the  reiterated  prom 
ises  and  solicitations  of  Mr.  Whitman's 
friends,  especially  his  literary  executors,  were 
more  than  he  could  combat.  But  with  all 
outward  signs  of  contentment,  the  confine 
ment  soon  left  visible  marks  upon  him;  a 
second  pair  of  rosy  cheeks  faded,  and  from 
handling  the  icy  wood  in  the  cellar  a  lasting 
cold  was  contracted. 

He  purchased  a  writing  desk — one  that 
fitted  the  niche  between  the  chimney  and 
the  window  in  the  anteroom — and  here  he 
wrote,  studied  and  read  when  not  actively 
employed;  always  busy,  always  within  call. 
When  the  monotony  and  confinement  became 
too  pressing,  he  purchased  a  violin  and  took 
music  lessons.  He  declared  that  this  saved 
him  from  fits  of  desperation. 

Mr.  Whitman  himself  was  not  the  only 
old  person  dependent  for  comfort  upon  Mrs. 
Davis  and  her  sons,  for  the  maternal  grand 
parents  of  the  latter,  living  in  Beardstown, 
Pennsylvania,  octogenarians  and  both  amaz 
ingly  jealous  of  the  poet,  had  to  be  visited, 
looked  after  and  consoled. 

One  great  annoyance  to  Warren  was  Mr. 
Whitman's  aversion  to  prompt  payment. 
The  old  man  had  signified  his  willingness  to 
purchase  his  own  wood,  but  he  was  so  de- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          129 

linquent  about  settling  for  it  that  the  pro 
prietor  of  the  woodyard,  a  man  whose  heart 
had  never  been  warmed  by  the  poet's  effu 
sions,  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  warm 
his  body  gratis,  and  so  sent  him  bill  after 
bill,  until  at  length  he  refused  to  deliver  a 
load  until  the  previous  one  was  paid  for.  Be 
it  understood,  Mr.  Whitman  intended  to  pay 
for  his  wood,  but  he  intended  to  pay  in  his 
own  time,  and  not  be  dictated  to;  conse 
quently  there  was  a  controversy  when  each 
load  was  delivered.  "His  pride  was  adamant 
to  anything  that  seemed  concession."  (John 
T.  Trowbridge.) 

Warren  knew  that  the  old  man  had  money, 
that  right  was  on  the  wood-dealer's  side, 
and  he  would  not  follow  his  mother's  way 
of  putting  people  off — telling  them  that  Mr. 
Whitman  was  too  miserable  to  be  troubled, 
asking  for  an  extension  of  time,  etc.,  then 
paying  the  bill  herself  and  lacking  the  cour 
age  to  present  the  receipt.  No,  "Warry" 
would  approach  the  subject  in  such  an  orig 
inal  fashion  and  hand  the  bill  to  his  patient 
in  such  an  offhand  way  that  it  would  appeal 
to  him  directly,  and  as  a  rule  the  money  was 
counted  out  with  a  quiet  chuckle.  Eddie 
Wilkins  wrote :  "Mr.  Whitman  is  stubborn 
and  self-willed.  You  can  only  get  along 


130  WALT  WHITMAN 

with  him  by  letting  him  have  his  own  way." 
Warren  would  meet  the  stubbornness  and 
self-will  with  just  as  persistent  good-nature, 
and  would  usually  gain  his  point.  He  was 
the  only  person  Walt  Whitman  never  chloro 
formed  with  one  of  his  "Ahs !" 

Early  in  April,  1890,  the  poet  was  asked 
to  read  his  Lincoln  lecture  at  the  Art  Club 
rooms  in  Philadelphia,  and  he  agreed.  He 
was  just  recovering  from  a  bad  spell,  and 
Mrs.  Davis  did  her  best  to  dissuade  him 
from  such  an  undertaking,  but  without  avail ; 
he  summoned  up  his  resolution  once  more 
and  had  his  own  way.  With  the  assistance 
of  Warren  and  others,  he  dressed  and  pain 
fully  dragged  himself  to  the  place  of  destina 
tion,  and  there,  before  a  gay  and  crowded 
assembly,  he  appeared  for  the  last  time  in 
public  as  a  speaker.  But  the  effort  was  too 
great,  and  when  the  reading  was  ended 
and  the  congratulations  over,  he  was  taken 
home  in  a  suffering  and  nearly  unconscious 
condition  and  carried  to  his  bed,  where,  ex 
hausted  and  worn  out,  he  was  for  some  days 
obliged  to  remain.  However,  on  May  31 
he  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  attend  a 
birthday  dinner  at  Reiser's  in  Philadelphia. 
When  the  guests  were  assembled — some 
fifty  or  sixty  in  number — Warren  wheeled 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          131 

him  into  the  room,  where  without  leaving 
his  chair  he  joined  in  the  convivialities  of  the 
occasion.  He  did  not  fear  to  dissipate  a 
little  at  events  like  this,  nor  did  he  always 
pause  at  the  point  of  prudence,  for  he  knew 
that  in  whatsoever  state  he  might  reach 
home  the  best  of  after-care  awaited  him 
there. 

During  the  spring  and  summer  the  chair 
rides  were  resumed  whenever  he  was  at  his 
best,  and  he  entered  into  the  enjoyment 
with  zest  and  appreciation.  When  feeling 
particularly  well  he  would  make  up  for  lost 
time,  until  the  rolling  chair  with  its  dis 
tinguished  occupant  and  handsome  boyish- 
looking  propeller  was  often  seen  by  the 
hour  as  it  passed  through  the  streets  of  Cam- 
den  and  adjacent  suburbs.  This  chair  stimu 
lated  the  interest  of  the  neighbors  and  when 
ever  it  was  carried  to  the  sidewalk  the  news 
spread  quickly,  so  that  by  the  time  Mrs. 
Davis  appeared  with  Warren,  helping  the 
old  man  down  the  stoop,  they  had  a  good- 
sized  and  extremely  attentive  audience.  No 
doubt  they  had  long  since  ceased  to  look 
upon  Mr.  Whitman  as  a  mysterious  person 
age,  but  they  comprehended  that  he  was  not 
one  of  them,  and  everything  new  connected 
with  him  still  excited  their  curiosity. 


132  WALT  WHITMAN 

Warren's  advent  at  a  season  when  he  was 
so  needed  was  indeed  a  blessing  to  his 
mother.  Now  she  could  count  upon  her  time 
and  arrange  for  her  work,  could  go  out  with 
no  anxiety  as  to  home  matters,  and  could 
have  the  kitchen  to  herself  when  she  wished. 

The  heat  of  this  summer  debilitated  the 
invalid  more  than  that  of  the  previous  one, 
or  even  of  the  famous  (or  dreadful)  one 
of  1887,  devoted  so  exhaustingly  to  art. 
For  days  the  old  man  would  now  be  too 
overcome  for  any  outing,  and  would  be  glad 
instead  to  sit  on  the  sidewalk,  as  of  old,  in 
the  shade  of  his  cherished  tree.  He  spent 
some  evenings  with  friends,  and  occasion 
ally  went  out  to  a  Sunday  dinner  or  to  meet 
certain  people;  but  this  became  too  strenu 
ous,  and  the  after-effects  too  serious. 

The  chair  rides,  though  so  often  inter 
rupted,  were  continued  until  late  in  the  fall. 

"Was  out  in  wheel-chair  yesterday,  No 
vember  8,  from  twelve  to  two-thirty." 

He  made  a  few  visits  to  the  river,  and 
seated  in  his  chair  took  his  last  boat  rides 
across  it.  In  October  he  visited  Philadel 
phia  for  the  last  time. 


XIV 

FRIENDS,  MONEY,  AND  A  MAU 
SOLEUM 

"Christmas  Day,  1890,  was  spent  by  Walt  Whitman  in 
giving  himself  and  all  his  family  a  Christmas  present 
for  all  eternity.  He  went  out  to  Harleigh  Cemetery,  a 
suburb  of  Camden,  to  select  a  site  for  a  tomb." 

— WILLIAM   SLOANE   KENNEDY. 

ON  the  evening  of  October  21,  Colonel 
Robert    Ingersoll    gave    a    lecture    in 
Horticulture    Hall,     Philadelphia,     for    the 
benefit  of  Mr.  Whitman.     The  subject  was 
"Liberty  in  Literature." 

This  form  of  assistance  to  the  poet  was 
suggested  to  Colonel  Ingersoll  by  Mr.  John 
ston  of  New  York,  one  of  Walt's  oldest  and 
most  valued  friends,  who  came  to  Camden 
to  talk  the  matter  over  and  make  the  neces 
sary  arrangements.  Mr.  Whitman  took 
unusual  interest  in  the  project  and  was  de 
sirous  of  being  present.  Mr.  Johnston,  who 
had  great  confidence  in  Mrs.  Davis  and 
much  regard  for  her  opinion,  consulted  her 
upon  the  subject.  She  said  that  recent  cool 
weather  had  done  much  for  the  old  man, 
133 


134  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  barring  unlooked-for  accidents,  she  be 
lieved  that  he  could  be  counted  upon.  Mr. 
Whitman  himself,  who  was  well  aware  that 
his  later  appearances  in  public  had  proved  a 
great  tax  upon  his  strength,  declared  his  in 
tention  of  husbanding  the  little  that  re 
mained  for  the  event.  This  he  did;  the 
evening  arrived,  the  weather  was  favorable, 
and  all  was  well. 

Every  possible  exertion  had  been  spared 
him,  and  he  started  off  in  high  spirits.  An 
easy  carriage  had  been  secured,  and  he 
reached  the  hall  without  fatigue;  even  in 
better  condition  than  had  been  anticipated. 
He  was  accompanied  by  a  friend,  and  by 
Warren  and  Mrs.  Davis,  for  both  Mr.  John 
ston  and  Colonel  Ingersoll  had  insisted  upon 
her  being  one  of  the  party.  On  alighting 
from  the  carriage  and  entering  the  hall, 
Mrs.  Davis  was  given  a  seat  in  the  audience 
not  far  from  the  stage,  and  Mr.  Whitman 
and  Warren  were  taken  behind  the  scenes, 
where  the  lecturer  and  some  gentlemen 
awaited  them.  An  armchair  had  been  placed 
for  the  poet  by  the  speaker's  stand.  A  few 
moments  before  the  lecture  began,  he  came 
upon  the  stage  and  seated  himself.  He  was 
greeted  with  enthusiasm  by  the  overflowing 
house,  and  when  the  eloquent  speaker  had 


IN  MICKLE  STREET         135 

closed  his  fine  address,  he  arose,  came  for 
ward  and  spoke  a  few  words.  This  was  his 
last  appearance  in  public. 

Colonel  Ingersoll  had  engaged  a  room  in 
a  nearby  hotel,  where  at  the  close  of  the 
lecture  a  small  company  were  invited  to 
partake  of  a  collation  and  pass  an  informal, 
social  hour.  When  all  were  seated  at  the 
table,  the  Colonel  handed  Mr.  Whitman 
$870  as  his  share  of  the  proceeds,  and  upon 
doing  so  remarked  to  Mrs.  Davis :  "That 
sum  will  keep  you  all  in  comfort  this  winter." 
But  like  all  other  sums  received  by  Mr. 
Whitman,  it  was  deposited  unbroken  in  the 
bank. 

Mr.  Whitman  stood  this  exertion  well, 
but  the  reaction  came  later;  the  borrowed 
strength  gave  out,  and  the  winter  found  him 
much  the  worse  for  wear.  He  came  down 
stairs  a  number  of  times  in  October  and 
November,  and  had  occasional  outings,  but 
he  passed  the  time  chiefly  in  his  own  room, 
and  the  big  chair  which  Warren  and  his 
mother  had  carried  up  and  down  stairs,  to 
the  place  where  it  was  needed  for  the  time 
being,  was  never  again  taken  below.  He 
sat  up  much  less,  however,  and  would  lie 
upon  his  back  for  hours,  with  his  eyes  par- 


136  WALT  WHITMAN 

tially  closed  and  his  hands  crossed  upon  his 
breast. 

Letters  came  with  kind  wishes  and  friend 
ly  words;  these  he  appreciated,  though  he 
could  seldom  answer  them.  Yet  he  still 
read  and  wrote  a  little,  still  looked  over  his 
newspapers  and  periodicals,  and  the  accumu 
lating  litter  therefore  received  its  weekly 
contributions;  but  at  his  mother's  earnest 
request  Warren  did  not  interfere.  When 
little  things  were  carried  upstairs,  the  old 
man  would  often  ask  that  they  might  be  left. 
If  any  article  were  taken  up  he  would  usu 
ally  say,  "Leave  it  a  while  longer;  I  may 
want  it  by  and  by."  This  accounts  for  the 
soiled  dishes  frequently  seen  in  his  room. 

Old  friends  and  new  ones  were  constant, 
and  seemed  to  devise  ways  in  which  they 
could  shower  attentions  upon  the  sick  man. 
The  oysterman  in  the  next  street  sent  word 
that  he  was  at  all  times  welcome  to  a  free 
share  of  his  stock  in  trade,  and  there  was  no 
time  when  oysters  were  not  kept  unopened  in 
the  cellar;  but  Mr.  Whitman  beyond  doubt 
overstepped  the  bounds  of  the  donor's  gen 
erous  intentions  when  he  treated  his  com 
pany  so  lavishly  to  stews  and  half-shells, 
also  when  he  ordered  supplies  for  his  young 
men  friends  in  return  for  services  they  ren- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          137 

dered  him.  Mrs.  Davis  and  Warren  did  not 
approve  of  this,  and  each  was  ashamed  to 
visit  the  little  place  so  many  times;  they 
without  money,  and  the  oysters  without 
price. 

Did  Mr.  Whitman,  in  truth,  have  an  ac 
curate  or  an  undeveloped  knowledge  of  the 
cost  of  living? 

Eddie  Wilkins  writes:  "Oh,  he  knows  the 
value  of  money,  and  is  very  careful  with  his 


own." 


His  benevolence  to  the  sick  and  wounded 
soldiers  during  a  great  part  of  the  civil 
war  is  an  old  and  often  repeated  story,  but 
in  this  he  was  to  a  great  extent  the  almoner 
of  others.  His  self-sacrificing  labors  as  a 
volunteer  visiting  nurse  were  his  own  free 
will  offering,  and  from  them  came  his  long 
years  of  suffering,  for  his  early  paralysis  was 
the  result  of  these  exhaustive  and  unremitted 
efforts. 

"His  devotion  surpassed  the  devotion  of 
woman."  (John  Swinton,  in  a  letter  to  the 
New  York  Herald,  April  i,  1876.) 

Most  of  the  time  while  he  was  living  in 
Washington  he  occupied  a  small  room  up 
three  flights  of  stairs.  He  had  but  little 
furniture  and  no  dishes ;  he  ate  out  of  paper 
bags  and  subsisted  upon  a  very  meagre  sura 


138  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  money.  This  sufficed  for  that  period  of 
his  life,  when  he  was  in  "his  splendid  prime." 
(John  Swinton.)  He  had  health,  strength 
and  only  himself  to  think  of;  and  taking  a 
house  of  his  own  in  after  years — humble  as 
was  the  one  in  Mickle  Street — did  not  seem 
to  mature  in  him  any  realizing  sense  of  the 
intrinsic  value  of  money,  or  reveal  to  him 
his  own  pecuniary  obligations.  He  never 
seemed  to  question  what  housekeeping  in 
volved,  never  seemed  to  pause  and  think  that 
certain  responsibilities  rested  upon  him  alone, 
or  feel  that  he  might  be  wronging  others, 
especially  those  whose  services  he  accepted 
and  whose  embarrassments  he  never  in 
quired  into,  never  offered  to  relieve.  But 
Mrs.  Davis,  conservative,  conscientious,  and 
true  to  him,  did  not  disclose  his  domestic 
failures  or  discuss  them  with  others.  His 
financial  standing  was  not  revealed  to  his 
English  friends,  and  remained  quite  a  secret 
until  the  Christmas  season  of  this  year,  when 
he  was  given  a  site  for  a  grave  in  Harleigh 
Cemetery. 

It  is  not  unreasonable  to  believe  that  he 
had  special  designs  in  putting  money  so 
quietly  aside,  one  of  which — and  the  great 
est,  perhaps — was  to  build  a  family  vault. 
It  has  been  said  that  it  was  for  this  very 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          139 

purpose  he  accumulated  money;  hoarded, 
accepted  and  saved  in  the  most  minute  of 
things.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  often  told 
the  delightful  story  of  a  certain  $9.00  which 
Whitman  borrowed  from  him — magnifi 
cently,  but  also  irrevocably — in  Pfoff's  res 
taurant  on  Broadway. 

After  he  had  accepted  and  secured  the 
site,  he  spoke  freely  of  his  wishes  and  in 
tentions  regarding  the  tomb.  He  specified 
that  certain  members  of  his  family  should  be 
placed  in  it,  and  requested  in  particular  that 
his  parents  should  be  brought  from  Long 
Island  to  sleep  with  them  there. 

It  was  to  be  of  granite,  massive  and  com 
modious;  and  on  a  projection  above  the  door 
was  to  be  a  granite  statue  of  himself,  stand 
ing.  His  ideas  were  excessive,  and  the  ex 
pense  far  beyond  his  means;  still,  he  may 
have  thought  that  the  proceeds  accruing 
from  his  book  would  warrant  an  extrava 
gance  for  death  that  he  never  vouchsafed  to 
life.  The  tomb  was  begun  according  to  his 
orders,  but  was  finished  on  a  much  smaller 
scale — as  it  now  stands — and  just  in  time 
to  lay  him  therein. 

When  it  became  known  that  preparations 
had  been  made  to  erect  this  costly  mau 
soleum,  it  dawned  upon  some  of  his  friends 


1 40  WALT  WHITMAN 

that  he  had  a  way  of  keeping  things  to  him 
self.  It  certainly  did  seem  strange  that  some 
of  them  should  pay  a  monthly  tax  for  his 
support  when  he  had  means  of  his  own,  and 
could  contemplate  such  an  expenditure  as 
this.  In  truth  people  were  getting  tired  of 
the  constant  drain  upon  their  purses,  and 
many  had  long  questioned  why  they  should 
so  frequently  be  called  upon,  and  wondered 
what  could  become  of  the  money  that  flowed 
in  large  and  small  streams  into  the  Whitman 
exchequer.  A  few  even  suspected  Mrs. 
Davis  of  appropriating  it,  and  of  this — un 
known  to  her — she  was  accused.  She  was 
also  charged  with  wastefulness,  neglect  of 
the  invalid,  and  gross  incompetence. 

The  poet  still  kept  his  affairs  to  himself, 
and  "it  may  be  he  thought  that  what  he 
received  from  his  admirers  was  but  a  portion 
of  the  debt  they  owed  him."  (William 
Sloane  Kennedy.) 

January  and  February  of  this  winter  were 
hard  months  to  the  sick  man.  He  suffered 
with  severe  headaches,  lassitude  and  inertia, 
added  to  which  he  had  long  and  obstinate 
spells  of  indigestion.  He  remarked  to  some 
old  friends  that  he  suffered  somewhat  from 
want  of  persons  to  cheer  him  up;  most 
visitors  came  to  him  to  confess  their  own 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          141 

weakness  and  failures,  and  to  disburden 
themselves  of  their  sorrows.  It  was  just 
the  opposite  disposition  in  his  two  constant 
attendants  that  made  their  companionship  so 
agreeable  to  him.  Warren's  witty  and  play 
ful  sallies  always  provoked  a  quiet  smile, 
and  his  mother's  "inventive  thoughtfulness" 
was  rewarded  with  an  appreciative,  approv 
ing  look. 

During  March  he  made  some  gain,  but  it 
was  not  until  April  15  that  he  got  out  of 
doors  to  enjoy  the  sunshine  and  invigorating 
air.  With  his  rides  new  courage  came  to 
him,  and  in  May  he  was  able  to  be  taken 
to  the  cemetery  to  witness  the  progress 
made  on  the  tomb.  But  in  the  last  ten 
months  of  his  life  he  was  so  worn  by  pain, 
and  had  so  aged,  that  his  restful,  reliable 
home  comforts  were  the  dearest  of  all 
earthly  things  to  him. 


XV 
THE  LAST  BIRTHDAY  PARTY 

"There  was  one  more  birthday  dinner  celebrated  with 
his  friends  in  the  Mickle  Street  house  on  May  31,  1891. 
Whitman  was  seventy-two.  That  privacy,  which  is  the 
normal  privilege  of  old  age,  'was  one  of  the  kinds  of 
happiness  'which  he  didn't  experience." — BLISS  PERRY. 

"Munching  a  little  bread  dipped  in  champagne  and 
talking  about  Death.  He  had  never  been  more  pic 
turesque." — BLISS  PERRY. 

ON  May  31,  when  Mr.  Whitman  had 
reached  the  age  of  seventy-two,  his 
last  birthday  (as  it  proved)  was  celebrated 
by  a  dinner  given  in  his  own  home.  This 
arrangement  was  adopted  as  the  only  means 
of  ensuring  his  presence,  and  the  gathering 
was  the  final  social  event  in  that  little  house. 
The  managing  committee  was  composed 
of  young  men,  most  of  whom  knew  nothing 
of  the  limited  dimensions  of  the  place,  and 
had  not  reflected  upon  the  incongruity  of 
their  undertaking;  nor,  until  the  plans  were 
all  made,  arrangements  nearly  completed 
and  the  invitations  issued,  was  Mrs.  Davis 
told  what  was  to  take  place.  When  the 
142 


WALT  WHITMAN  143 

youngest  of  the  three  literary  executors,  who 
had  devised  and  was  at  the  head  of  the 
scheme,  finally  informed  her,  she  said  she 
feared  that  such  a  thing  as  seating  thirty-six 
people  in  the  parlors  was  impracticable;  how 
ever,  she  would  do  her  best  in  helping  them 
to  carry  out  their  wishes. 

It  was  by  good  luck  that  the  arrangements 
were  in  the  hands  of  inexperienced,  enthusi 
astic  and  hopeful  young  people,  for  the  diffi 
culties  to  be  overcome  would  have  discour 
aged  older  and  more  experienced  folk  at  the 
outset.  It  was  better  still  for  them  that  they 
found  a  well-balanced  mind,  willing  hands 
and  managing  skill  in  their  home  agent,  as 
this  alone  saved  them  from  ignoble  failure. 
First  the  parlor  doors,  double  and  single,  to 
gether  with  the  hall  and  kitchen  doors,  se 
cured  with  old-fashioned  six-screw  hinges, 
were  removed  and  carried  into  the  yard;  the 
spare  bed  put  up  since  Mr.  Whitman's  last 
stroke  was  taken  down,  together  with  the 
stove,  and  with  the  entire  furniture  likewise 
removed.  This  was  literally  turning  the  par 
lors  inside  out. 

Mrs.  Davis,  as  usual,  succeeded  in  making 
a  place  for  everything.  Warren  did  most 
of  the  hard  work  and  lifting,  while  his 
mother  swept  the  rooms,  cleaned  the  win- 


i44  WALT  WHITMAN 

dows,  put  up  fresh  curtains  and  made  the 
place  so  presentable  that  the  young  men  of 
the  committee,  who  took  kindly  to  her  en 
couraging  words  and  wise  suggestions,  ac 
knowledged  that  they  did  not  see  how  they 
could  have  managed  without  her  ready  and 
efficient  cooperation.  On  the  morning  of 
the  birthday  she  was  of  equal  service  to  the 
waiters  who,  when  the  tables,  chairs  and 
dishes  arrived,  discovered  many  drawbacks 
in  such  an  unlooked-for  banquet  hall. 

The  head  table  was  placed  across  the 
front  parlor,  in  a  line  with  the  windows,  the 
other,  the  length  of  the  back  parlor,  forming 
a  T  with  it;  and  these,  with  the  small  chairs, 
so  completely  filled  the  rooms  that  only  just 
sufficient  space  was  left  for  the  waiters  to 
serve  the  guests  through  the  two  doorways. 
Most  of  the  viands  came  ready  cooked,  and 
the  caterer  had  done  full  justice  to  them; 
the  coffee  was  made  on  the  kitchen  stove, 
which,  with  the  little  one  in  the  shed,  was 
brought  into  requisition  for  heating  pur 
poses.  Mrs.  Davis  was  usefulness  itself  in 
getting  things  in  readiness,  advising  with  the 
caterer  and  helping  him  out  of  quandaries. 
When  the  dinner  had  been  decided  upon 
she  had  been  told  that  it  should  put  her  to  no 
extra  work;  and  when  she  made  the  matter 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          145 

really  possible  she  was  told  that  she  had 
done  her  part,  which  should  end  there,  as  the 
committee  would  attend  to  putting  things 
to  rights  afterwards. 

Getting  Mr.  Whitman  ready,  and  seeing 
that  he  was  in  no  way  overtaxed,  was  of 
much  importance,  and  it  was  carefully  looked 
after.  At  the  appointed  hour,  seven  P.  M., 
the  guests  assembled,  and  there  being  no 
reception  room,  each  took  his  or  her  as 
signed  place  at  the  table;  then,  when  all 
were  seated,  the  venerable  host  was  brought 
down.  He  was  met  with  congratulations, 
and  led  to  the  head  of  the  table.  There 
were  twenty-seven  men  and  five  women  pres 
ent,  and  not  until  the  greetings  were  over  did 
he  and  his  old  friends  observe  that  Mrs. 
Davis  had  been  left  out.  Room  at  the  table 
was  not  wanting,  as  three  chairs  were  vacant 
through  the  non-arrival  of  the  expected  oc 
cupants;  besides,  two  of  the  ladies  were 
strangers  to  the  poet.  Mrs.  Davis  felt  the 
slight,  although  she  could  not  very  well  have 
formed  one  of  the  company  in  any  event, 
her  presence  being  indispensable  elsewhere. 

It  was  a  good  dinner  and  well  served,  all 
things  considered.  The  day  was  insufferably 
hot,  and  the  windows  and  the  front  door 
were  left  wide  open.  Many  noticed  and  re- 


146  WALT  WHITMAN 

marked  that  during  the  dinner  no  loungers 
were  about  the  front  of  the  house,  "no  boys 
looking  in,  yelling  or  throwing  stones  or 
mud — no  curiosity  gazers.  Respect  for  Mr. 
Whitman  possibly  prevented  this."  (Thomas 
Donaldson.)  Respect  for  Mr.  Whitman  in 
part,  no  doubt,  but  a  greater  respect  for  a 
contract  made  beforehand;  Mrs.  Davis  had 
bought  them  off;  something  good  for  each 
one  of  them  for  good  conduct.  She  was 
not  so  successful  in  securing  the  same  consid 
erate  behavior  from  Watch,  her  coach  dog, 
for  to  her  great  mortification,  just  as  one 
gentleman  commenced  to  read  "O  Captain! 
my  Captain!"  he  came  into  the  parlor  door 
way,  "put  his  nose  up  in  the  air  and  uttered 
a  series  of  the  most  ungodly  howls  ever 
listened  to."  (Thomas  Donaldson.)  He 
continued  to  howl  until  the  reading  ceased, 
then  abruptly  left  the  room. 

The  dinner  lasted  until  ten  o'clock — three 
hours.  A  stenographer  took  down  the 
toasts,  responses,  scraps  of  conversation,  etc. 
But  while  these  were  at  their  height,  one 
compliment,  one  little  speech,  was  not  re 
corded.  Mr.  Whitman  looked  around  the 
table  as  if  seeking  something,  and  on  being 
asked,  "Is  there  anything  you  want,  Walt?" 
replied,  "Yes,  I  want  a  piece  of  Mary's 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          147 

bread"  It  was  brought  to  him.  Mr.  Whit 
man,  no  doubt,  feeling  that  Mary  had  been 
slighted,  took  this  peculiar  way  of  his  own  to 
show  his  regard  for  her. 

The  next  day  the  tables  and  chairs  were 
taken  away,  but  the  committee's  promises  of 
assistance  were  probably  forgotten,  for  re 
gardless  of  the  poor  days  Mr.  Whitman 
passed  in  consequence  of  the  dinner,  and  his 
need  of  extra  care,  no  help  whatever  was 
proffered  and  Mrs.  Davis  and  Warren  were 
left  to  right  the  house  by  degrees,  working 
as  they  could. 

The  summer  following  the  invalid  was 
glad  to  pass  quietly  in  his  room.  The  heat 
overcame  him,  for  he  had  lost  all  his  re 
sistant  power,  and  truly  needed  the  attention 
and  care  that  it  was  his  good  fortune  to  re 
ceive.  Part  of  the  time  he  was  up  and 
dressed,  but  he  seldom  felt  equal  to  more 
than  this.  His  outings  were  few  in  number, 
the  reading  fell  off,  and  the  writing  was 
nearly  discontinued.  However,  this  did  not 
prevent  the  litter  in  his  room  from  mysteri 
ously  increasing  in  the  same  slow,  sure, 
steady  ratio.  As  this  did  not  bother  him, 
and  he  was  inclined  to  be  tranquil  and  sat 
isfied,  no  one  disturbed  him,  or  interfered 
in  any  way  with  his  idiosyncrasies. 


148  WALT  WHITMAN 

His  world  had  become  contracted  to  still 
smaller  dimensions;  the  four  walls  of  his 
own  room  enclosed  it.  He  had  relinquished 
his  hold  upon  outside  life  with  its  bustle  and 
excitement,  and  more  than  ever  wished  to 
be  left  alone,  left  to  himself.  He  was  his 
own  best  company,  apparently,  for  he  often 
evinced  disapprobation  on  being  roused  from 
one  of  his  long  reveries.  At  intervals  he 
would  seem  to  be  the  old-time  man,  would 
rouse  up  and  talk,  even  jest,  after  which 
would  follow  spells  of  depression  or  dreaded 
indigestion.  In  the  latter  case,  day  would 
succeed  day  when  his  only  nourishment  would 
be  a  light  cup-custard  or  a  small  glass  of 
iced  buttermilk. 

The  fall  did  little  for  him,  and  there 
was  an  unmistakable  and  steady  decline  un 
til  December  17,  when  after  a  number  of 
miserable  days  he  was  seized  with  a  chill,  the 
precursor  of  pneumonia.  For  a  week  his 
life  hung  in  the  balance;  friends  and  rela 
tives  were  summoned,  and  the  best  medical 
advice  was  procured.  Each  hour  the  final 
call  seemed  at  hand;  then  came  a  pause, 
and  the  issue  was  uncertain;  next  there  was 
a  slight  improvement. 

The  burden  of  all  this  fell  mainly  upon 
Warren,  who  was  only  relieved  temporarily 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          149 

day  or  night  by  his  no  less  worn-out  mother. 
Believing  that  each  day  would  be  the  last, 
each  had  held  up  and  gone  on,  until  on  the 
28th  the  limit  of  endurance  was  reached, 
and  they  asked  for  assistance.  As  the  pa 
tient's  symptoms  were  tending  toward  a  pro 
tracted  illness  rather  than  a  speedy  death, 
his  friends  saw  that  this  was  imperative,  and 
Dr.  Bucke,  who  had  recently  arrived  in  Cam- 
den,  went  to  Philadelphia  to  engage  a  profes 
sional  nurse. 


XVI 
THE  NEW  NURSE 

"Well,  I  told  you  doctors  when  I  was  so  very  bad, 
'let  me  go;  let  me  die.'  I  felt  you  would  not  listen  to  a 
word  .  .  .  you  would  not  think  of  it  for  a  moment,  and 
here  I  am. 

"I  chose  to  go.  I  may  pull  through  it  and  have  it  all 
to  go  through  again;  it  looks  more  so  to-day  than  for  a 
fortnight.  You  are  all  making  a  strong  pull  for  me,  I 
can  see  that" — WALT  WHITMAN. 

THE  requirements  in  the  nurse  were  ma 
turity,  experience  in  the  care  of  sick 
men,  and  the  ability  to  take  notes  and  keep  a 
careful  record.  Dr.  Bucke  engaged  a  suit 
able  person,  and  talked  freely  'and  unre 
servedly  to  her  about  the  patient,  his  physical 
condition  and  his  eccentric  habits.  He  said 
it  was  his  firm  belief  that  his  life  could  not 
last  more  than  a  few  days  longer,  and  that  he 
was  confident  that  another  such  room  as  the 
one  he  was  in,  littered  and  uncared  for,  did 
not  exist  upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  He 
further  said  that  his  poor  old  friend  had 
been  in  wretched  health  for  some  years  past, 
that  he  was  in  no  way  able  to  look  out  for 
himself,  and  that  he  was  in  the  hands  and 
150 


WALT  WHITMAN  151 

at  the  mercy  of  a  designing  and  unprincipled 
woman, — the  unrefined  and  ignorant  widow 
of  a  sailor, — who  as  a  housekeeper  was  un 
reliable  and  dishonest,  and  who  alone  was 
responsible  for  the  condition  in  which  the 
sick  room  was  to  be  found.  He  added  that 
it  had  been  arranged  that  the  nurse  should 
go  out  to  all  her  meals  at  the  expense  of 
the  patient's  friends;  that  she  was  to  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  house 
keeper,  and  above  all  things  she  was  not  to 
allow  her  to  enter  the  sick  man's  room.  To 
put  the  matter  to  her  concisely,  she  was, 
during  the  entire  engagement,  long  or  short 
as  it  might  prove,  to  speak  to  but  three 
persons,  these  being  the  two  literary  execu 
tors  living  in  Camden,  Mr.  Harned  and  Mr. 
Traubel,  and  her  own  colleague,  Warren 
Fritzinger.  He  told  her  that  the  first  things 
he  desired  her  to  do  were  to  get  the  sick 
room  into  order,  and  to  begin  recording 
the  daily  transactions;  she  must  be  careful 
to  note  all  Mr.  Whitman's  words  as  they 
were  uttered,  and  to  write  them  down  faith 
fully.  Dr.  Bucke  spoke  as  one  having  full 
authority,  and  the  nurse  had  no  reason  for 
disbelieving  anything  he  had  said.  (And 
ever  after  believed  that  Mrs.  Davis  had 
been  cruelly  maligned  (but  by  whom?)  and 


152  WALT  WHITMAN 

that  Dr.  Bucke,  who  lived  at  a  distance  and 
saw  little  of  his  friend's  home  life,  had 
been  deceived  and  misled.)  He  assured  her 
that  money  in  abundance  would  be  supplied 
for  all  the  sick  man's  needs,  and  that  it  was 
the  wish  of  his  friends  that  he  should  have 
every  comfort  possible  until  the  end. 

By  a  second  appointment  Dr.  Bucke  met 
the  nurse  at  the  ferry,  and  they  set  out  to 
gether  for  the  dying  poet's  home,  the  Doc 
tor,  while  crossing  the  Delaware,  repeating 
and  dwelling  upon  what  he  had  previously 
said. 

The  ring  at  the  door  was  answered  by  a 
pleasant,  ladylike  woman,  between  whom 
and  the  Doctor  there  was  a  show  of  mutual 
good  feeling.  The  back  parlor  was  given 
to  the  nurse  as  her  room,  and  when  she  had 
laid  her  wraps  aside  Dr.  Bucke  led  the  way 
upstairs.  To  the  relief  of  all  Mr.  Whitman 
had  made  no  objections  to  a  lady  as  nurse, 
and  when  she  entered  his  room  he  extended 
his  hand.  A  number  of  gentlemen  were 
present,  among  them  his  brother  George  and 
the  two  literary  executors,  who  had  re 
mained  to  take  leave  of  Dr.  Bucke.  An 
artist  who  had  just  completed  some  etch 
ings  of  the  poet  had  sent  him  six  compli 
mentary  copies,  one  of  which  he  presented 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          153 

to  his  departing  friend,  at  whose  request 
he  was  raised  up  to  autograph  it.  This,  it 
was  supposed,  would  be  his  last  signature. 

The  prospect  being  that  he  would  not 
only  survive  the  night,  but  would  pass  it  in 
comparative  comfort,  his  friends  and  rela 
tives  left,  excepting  only  his  niece,  Miss 
Jessie  Whitman,  the  daughter  of  his  brother 
Jefferson. 

Poor  Warren  was  overjoyed  at  the  idea 
of  going  to  bed,  for  in  the  last  four  days 
and  nights  he  had  had  no  rest,  and  since 
the  chill,  ten  days  before,  had  not  found  time 
to  change  or  remove  his  clothing.  While 
giving  the  nurse  her  instructions  he  confessed 
that  he  was  completely  done  up,  that  such 
a  siege  as  he  had  just  passed  through  was 
worse  than  a  storm  at  sea ;  nevertheless 
he  wished  and  expected  to  be  called  at  any 
moment  if  his  services  were  required. 

Mrs.  Davis,  totally  unconscious  of  any 
ill  feeling  toward  her  and  disposed  to  show 
every  courtesy  to  the  nurse,  prepared  a  nice 
supper  to  which  she  invited  her  to  come. 
What  could  the  nurse  do?  No  way  had 
been  opened  for  her  to  go  outside  to  her 
meals — at  least  for  the  present — and  no 
one  except  Dr.  Bucke  had  mentioned  such  a 
thing;  it  was  dark,  she  was  in  a  strange 


154  WALT  WHITMAN 

city  and  ravenously  hungry.  She  could  not 
make  up  her  mind  to  refuse  and  run  off 
at  once  to  seek  a  restaurant,  especially  at 
a  time  like  this;  could  not  risk  leaving  a 
patient  so  dangerously  ill,  even  for  a  min 
ute;  nor  could  she  desert  the  two  weary 
people  who  were  looking  to  her  for  relaxa 
tion  and  relief.  No;  she  would  sooner  fast 
for  the  night.  But  fasting  was  not  neces 
sary;  so  descending  the  stairs,  passing 
through  the  hall  and  running  headlong  into 
the  flour  barrel,  she  entered  the  little  cabin- 
like  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Davis  was  so  worn  out  for  sleep  that 
even  while  standing  her  eyelids  would  close. 
She  apologized,  saying  that  she  had  been 
awake  so  many  hours  she  was  not  at  all, 
herself.  The  nurse  begged  her  to  lie  down 
at  once,  believing  this  weary,  sad-looking 
woman  must  be  a  relative  of  her  patient's, 
or  a  dear  friend  who  had  come  there  to 
bridge  over  the  present  crisis.  Dr.  Bucke 
had  not  mentioned  the  housekeeper's  name, 
and  the  kindly,  hospitable  person  who  had 
been  introduced  as  Mrs.  Davis  belied  in 
every  way  the  description  of  the  sailor's  un 
refined  widow.  Besides,  Warren  called  her 
mother. 

The  sick  man  required  but  few  attentions 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          155 

during  the  night,  and  was  so  painfully  still 
the  nurse  went  to  his  bedside  a  number  of 
times  to  assure  herself  that  he  was  breath 
ing.  Warren  came  in  twice  to  reconnoitre 
and  turn  him  over,  and  when  morning  peeped 
into  the  window  of  the  dull  little  anteroom 
and  he  found  that  no  new  complications  had 
developed  and  that  Mr.  Whitman  had  not 
suffered  from  the  change,  he  was  jubilant 
over  it. 

After  preparing  breakfast,  Mrs.  Davis,  as 
was  her  custom,  went  upstairs  to  sit  with 
the  patient  while  the  others  were  below. 
She  entered  his  room,  and  he — who  up  to 
this  time  had  lain  with  downcast  eyes, 
speechless,  almost  immovable — looked  up, 
smiled,  and  exclaimed  in  a  pleased  voice, 
"Ah,  Mary!"  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
friendly  relation  between  these  two  people, 
and  before  noon  the  nurse  learned  that  the 
coarse  housekeeper,  the  dreaded  housekeep 
er,  was  no  other  than  this  pleasant,  tired-out 
woman,  whose  kindness  she  appreciated  be 
cause  she  had  at  once  made  her  feel  so 
much  at  home.  What  did  the  nurse  think ! 

When  Mr.  Whitman  was  supposed  to  be 
dying,  Mrs.  Davis  had  in  a  way  managed  to 
meet  the  emergencies  of  the  occasion;  when 
a  rubber  sheet  was  called  for,  and  no  one 


156  WALT  WHITMAN 

offered  to  procure  or  order  one,  she  gave  her 
own  oilcloth  table  cover  to  supply  the  need. 
When  extra  sheets  were  in  demand  and  were 
not  forthcoming  from  any  quarter,  she 
bought  a  piece  of  cloth,  tore  off  the  lengths, 
and  was  obliged  to  use  them  unlaundered 
and  unhemmed,  for  even  in  this  trying  time 
only  one  person,  besides  her  personal  friends, 
had  offered  her  the  least  assistance  or  in 
quired  as  to  the  straits  to  which  she  was 
put.  This  single  exception  was  Mr.  Whit 
man's  sister-in-law,  who  had  left  a  sick  bed 
to  come  to  Camden  and  do  what  she  could. 

When  with  the  coming  of  the  nurse,  and 
cessation  from  immediate  anxiety,  Mrs. 
Davis  found  time  to  look  around,  she  dis 
covered  more  than  an  abundance  of  work. 
An  enormous  wash  had  accumulated,  her 
boiler  had  given  out,  and  damp  and  cloudy 
weather  necessitated  drying  everything  with 
in  doors.  Then  as  the  eaves  trough  had 
fallen  down,  and  the  kitchen  ceiling  leaked, 
Warren's  skill  in  carpentering  was  in  instant 
demand. 

They  found  the  nurse  willing  to  assist  in 
any  way,  and  the  housekeeper  was  delighted 
that  she  was  plain  spoken  and  matter-of-fact, 
and  knew  almost  nothing  of  her  patient  as 
a  writer;  that  she  regarded  him  only  as  a 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          157 

sick  and  helpless  old  man,  needing  personal 
care,  and  not  the  adulation  with  which  he 
was  surfeited.  Mr.  Whitman  himself  took 
kindly  to  her,  for  like  Mrs.  Davis  she  never 
questioned  him,  and  if  she  spoke  at  all,  al 
ways  touched  upon  the  most  simple,  common 
place  subjects. 

On  one  occasion  she  ventured  to  say  to 
him:  UI  suppose  you  would  be  disgusted 
with  me  if  I  told  you  that  I  had  never 
heard  of  Leaves  of  Grass  until  I  came 
here?"  He  laughed  a  little  and  replied:  "I 
guess  there  are  plenty  of  people  in  the 
world  who  can  say  the  same.  Leaves  of 
Grass  was  the  aim  of  my  life.  In  these  days 
and  nights  it  is  different:  my  mutton  broth 
— my  brandy — to  be  turned  promptly  and 
kept  clean — are  much  more  to  me  and  ap 
peal  to  me  more  deeply." 

Little  by  little,  much  was  accomplished; 
the  sheets  were  hemmed,  and  the  nurse  with 
part  of  the  small  and  only  sum  of  money 
given  to  her  soon  had  a  new  boiler  on  the 
stove;  then  when  the  table  cover,  which  had 
become  stiff,  wrinkled  and  ruined,  was  re 
placed  with  a  smooth  rubber  sheet,  and  a 
rubber  ring  purchased,  which  gave  the  pa 
tient  great  relief,  and  a  few  trifling  articles 
secured,  the  money  was  exhausted.  Mrs. 


158  WALT  WHITMAN 

George  Whitman  added  some  things  to  the 
supply,  after  which  it  fell  to  Mrs.  Davis  to 
resort  to  her  own  means  as  of  old,  and  one 
by  one  the  gold  pieces — Warren's  gift — 
melted  away. 

In  the  course  of  a  couple  of  weeks  the 
nurse  learned  that  she  was  boarding  at  the 
expense  of  the  housekeeper,  and  finding  that 
no  arrangements  had  been  made  to  this  effect 
she  wrote  to  Dr.  Bucke,  laying  the  matter 
before  him,  as  it  had  been  agreed  that  she 
should  write  to  him  semi-weekly  and  in  full 
confidence.  In  her  next  letter  she  told  him 
of  her  own  belief  in  Mrs.  Davis  as  a  most 
excellent  woman;  she  enlarged  upon  her  de 
votion  to  Mr.  Whitman  and  his  fondness  for 
her,  and  expressed  her  great  astonishment 
that  a  man  of  his  experience  could  be  so  mis 
taken  in  anyone.  In  reply  he  wrote  that  he 
was  pleased  to  know  that  he  had  been  misled. 

Mrs.  Davis  was  much  distressed  in  re 
gard  to  the  cleaning  of  the  sick  room.  She 
feared  it  would  make  Mr.  Whitman  un 
happy,  and  she  felt  that  as  his  life  was  to 
end  in  so  short  a  time,  further  indulgence 
might  be  granted  him.  But  he  was  found 
to  be  not  at  all  disposed  to  make  objections; 
indeed,  he  was  passive  in  the  extreme,  and 
when  the  nurse  in  any  doubt  or  difficulty 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          159 

would  occasionally  appeal  to  him,  he  had  but 
one  reply:  "Ask  Mary." 

To  the  surprise  of  everyone  he  lingered 
on,  improving  instead  of  growing  worse,  and 
by  the  end  of  the  month  had  regained  some 
thing  of  his  former  condition.  He  even 
wrote  a  few  short  letters,  autographed  the 
five  remaining  etchings,  and  a  photograph 
for  the  nurse. 

When  the  ominous  symptoms  had  disap 
peared  and  he  was  not  only  out  of  danger, 
but  quite  comfortable,  and  Mrs.  Davis  had 
got  the  most  pressing  work  well  in  hand, 
things  assumed  an  almost  unbroken  routine. 
Warren  took  the  night  work,  as  reporters 
often  came  to  the  house  at  late  hours  and 
he  was  accustomed  to  meeting  them;  even 
friends  would  come  thus  unseasonably  to 
inquire  for  the  poet  and  perhaps  beg  for  ad 
mittance  to  his  room. 

Yet  there  were  many  nights  during  the 
long  sickness — lasting  to  March  26 — when 
following  a  number  of  good  days  he  would 
sink  into  a  state  of  collapse,  and  then  both 
nurses  would  remain  up  together. 

As  Warren  did  his  home  work  in  the  fore 
noon,  which  was  also  his  mother's  busiest 
time,  the  nurse  prepared  the  patient's  break 
fast  and  gave  it  to  him;  but  seeing  that  he 


160  WALT  WHITMAN 

really  preferred  Mary's  presence  to  her 
own,  she  often  exchanged  work  with  her,  and 
the  only  actual  difference  was  that  Walt  had 
three  nurses  instead  of  two. 

Getting  the  sick  room  into  order  was  a 
tedious  task.  The  nurse  was  directed  to 
leave  every  scrap  of  paper  with  writing 
upon  it  in  the  room,  to  remove  only  the 
newspapers,  magazines,  circulars,  bound 
books,  wrapping  papers  and  so  on.  Then 
there  were  days  when  it  was  evident  that 
Mr.  Whitman  wished  to  be  alone,  other 
days  when  he  was  very  low  and  could  not  be 
disturbed,  still  other  days  when  he  had  long 
visits  from  friends ;  and  the  work  would 
have  to  be  postponed  for  the  time  being. 

All  the  newspapers  and  magazines  were 
stacked  upon  the  landing  outside  the  ante 
room  door;  the  books — usually  dropped 
anywhere,  open — were  placed  upon  the  pine 
shelves ;  the  manuscripts  were  piled  upon 
one  side  of  the  sick  room,  and  the  old  en 
velopes,  wrapping  paper  and  odds  and  ends 
of  string  alone  were  thrown  away. 

Warren's  desk  came  in  nicely,  and  seated 
at  this  the  nurse  wrote  her  record,  going  into 
the  details  and  minutiae  of  the  case,  as  she 
had  been  instructed.  In  this  Warren  took 
his  part,  and  as  he  knew  most  of  the  people 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          161 

who  called,  his  information  and  night  notes 
were  a  valuable  addition.  A  cot  under  the 
shelves  in  the  anteroom,  which  had  served 
as  a  bed  for  the  nurses  at  night  and  a  settee 
by  day,  was  taken  out  and  a  comfortable 
lounge  substituted,  which  had  been  hidden 
from  view  under  the  debris  in  the  other 
room.  This  gave  both  rooms  a  better  ap 
pearance,  besides  providing  a  more  com 
fortable  seat  and  sleeping  place. 

Mr.  Whitman  did  not  take  medicine  with 
regularity;  only  when  some  acute  pain  or 
persistent  discomfort  rendered  it  essential. 
His  temperature  was  never  taken,  his  pulse 
and  respiration  but  seldom;  and  in  no  way 
was  he  roused  up,  except  for  an  unavoidable 
cause,  or  perhaps  to  meet  company.  He 
fully  understood  his  owrn  condition,  and 
pleaded  for  but  one  thing:  rest. 

When  he  had  his  poor  days — when  it 
seemed  that  he  could  not  again  rally — he 
saw  no  one,  and  in  the  last  two  months 
he  wished  to  see  few  beside  his  nurses,  his 
two  doctors  (Dr.  Alex.  McAlister  of  Cam- 
den,  and  Dr.  Longaker  of  Philadelphia), 
and  his  faithful  Mary.  He  said  that  others 
tired  him,  and  yet  many  saw  him  and  held 
conversations  with  him,  even  at  this  late 
stage  in  his  life.  Colonel  Ingersoll  came 


i6z  WALT  WHITMAN 

twice,  and  sent  him  a  basket  of  champagne, 
of  which  he  took  sparingly  from  time  to 
time. 

It  was  not  so  lonesome  for  Warren  when 
there  was  someone  associated  with  him  in 
his  work,  and  the  nurse  listened  with  interest 
to  the  stories  he  told  of  his  early  escapades, 
and  of  his  subsequent  adventures  in  strange 
countries  and  at  sea.  He  could  boast  of 
having  saved  two  fellow  creatures  from 
drowning,  that  is,  if  he  were  at  all  inclined 
to  boast,  which  he  was  not.  After  awhile 
he  confided  the  disappointments  of  his  love 
affair,  saying  he  thought  it  hard  that  after 
being  engaged  for  over  two  and  a  half  years, 
he  had  not,  since  he  had  assumed  the  care 
of  Mr.  Whitman,  had  the  opportunity  and 
pleasure  of  inviting  and  escorting  his  fiancee 
to  an  evening  entertainment.  The  nurse 
thought  so  too;  she  sympathized  with  him; 
and  his  one  untrammelled  evening  was  when, 
unknown  to  his  mother,  she  slipped  over  to 
Philadelphia,  bought  tickets  and  secured 
seats  that  he  might  have  the  gratification  of 
taking  "Coddle"  to  the  theatre.  This  plot 
was  several  days  in  maturing,  and  when  the 
secret  was  disclosed  Mrs.  Davis  was  terribly 
exercised,  fearing  that  something  dreadful 
might  come  up  just  at  that  particular  time. 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          163 

She  tried  to  dissuade  Warren  from  going, 
but  it  was  two  against  one,  and  he  went. 
Nothing  eventful  occurred;  Mr.  Whitman 
was  at  his  best,  and  when  he  asked  for 
"Warry,"  and  was  told  where  he  had  gone, 
he  was  perfectly  satisfied. 

But  day  by  day  the  patient  steadily  de 
clined,  and  as  one  of  his  lungs  was  nearly 
useless,  it  affected  his  breathing  to  such  an 
extent  that  his  only  relief  was  in  change  of 
position — "shifting,"  as  he  called  it  when 
he  was  being  turned  from  one  side  to  the 
other.  He  could  eat  while  lying  down,  but 
could  drink  only  when  his  head  was  raised 
with  the  pillow  to  support  it.  Often  when 
Mrs.  Davis  went  into  the  room  to  turn  him, 
or  to  take  him  some  little  home-made  deli 
cacy,  she  came  out  in  tears.  What  was  said 
when  the  two  were  alone — if  they  spoke  at 
all — was  never  repeated,  never  reported. 

Mr.  Whitman  did  not  know  that  the 
nurse  kept  an  account  of  his  words,  or  wrote 
anything  whatever  regarding  him;  for  of  all 
things  he  disliked,  the  worst  was  to  feel  that 
there  was  someone  at  hand  or  just  out  of 
sight  with  pencil  and  paper  in  readiness  for 
instant  use. 

One  day  Warren  told  him  that  his  brother 
Harry's  Christmas  present  was  a  little  boy 


1 64  WALT  WHITMAN 

that  he  had  named  for  him :  Walt  Whitman 
Fritzinger.  This  pleased  the  sick  man,  and 
he  expressed  a  wish  to  see  his  little  name 
sake.  The  child  was  kept  in  readiness  for  a 
week;  then  early  one  evening,  when  Mr. 
Whitman  was  feeling  better  than  usual,  he 
was  sent  for.  His  nurse  brought  him  over, 
carried  him  into  the  sick  room  and  laid  him 
in  the  arms  of  the  old  man,  who  kissed  the 
little  fellow,  held  him  a  few  minutes  and  re 
peated  a  number  of  times:  "Well,  well, 
Little  Walt  Whitman,  Little  Walt  Whit 
man."  There  were  present  the  child's 
mother  and  nurse,  Mrs.  Davis,  Warren, 
and  Mrs.  Keller,  Mr.  Whitman's  nurse.  He 
never  saw  the  child  again,  but  often  inquired 
after  him,  and  added  a  codicil  to  his  will 
bequeathing  him  two  hundred  dollars.  (My 
name  is  on  the  codicil  as  witness  to  the 
signature. — E.  L.  K.) 

The  invalid  had  never  bought  himself  a 
new  mattress,  and  the  one  given  him  by 
Mrs.  Davis  seven  years  before — too  wide 
for  the  bedstead  and  extending  several  inches 
beyond  it  at  the  back — had  from  long 
and  constant  usage  become  hollow  in  the 
centre,  making  it  difficult  to  turn  him  from 
one  side  to  the  other,  for  he  would  often 
slip  back  into  the  hollow  place.  Warren 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          165 

once  said:  "When  I  come  on  this  side  of 
the  bed  you  slip  away  from  me."  "Ah, 
Warry,"  he  replied,  "one  of  these  fine  morn 
ings  I  shall  slip  away  from  you  forever." 

One  evening  a  member  of  the  editorial 
staff  of  the  New  York  E'vening  Telegram 
visited  him.  Mr.  Whitman  knew  that  he 
was  coming,  and  had  made  up  a  little  roll  of 
his  writings  to  give  him.  (Mr.  Traubel 
always  made  these  engagements,  met  the 
parties  and  accompanied  them  to  the  house.) 
Upon  leaving,  the  gentleman  said  that  the 
paper  had  raised  a  fund  wherewith  to  pur 
chase  flowers  for  the  poet's  room.  After 
wards  learning  that  the  defective  lung  made 
the  fragrance  of  flowers  stifling  to  him,  the 
paper  requested  that  the  money  be  applied  in 
some  other  way.  Mrs.  Davis  suggested  a 
longer  bed  and  a  firm,  level  mattress.  This 
was  agreed  to,  the  money  came  duly  to 
hand,  and  the  two  nurses  went  together  to 
select  the  bed.  The  one  decided  upon  was 
a  single  one,  made  of  oak  and  standing  at 
least  three  inches  higher  than  the  old  one; 
the  mattress  was  of  sea-grass.  When  the 
useful  gift,  which  was  a  surprise  to  Mr. 
Whitman,  arrived  and  was  being  set  up — 
February  22,  1892 — Walt  was  seated  for 
the  last  time  in  his  big  chair. 


1 66  WALT  WHITMAN 

Warren  said  it  would  be  a  pity  to  have 
this  bedstead  battered  up  as  the  old  one  had 
been — for  the  old  man  still  kept  his  cane 
within  reach  and  often  pounded  upon  the 
footboard;  so  he  rigged  up  a  bell  in  the 
anteroom,  and  carried  the  wire  over  the 
door  and  into  the  sick  room,  where  a  drop 
string  came  down  to  the  bed.  Mr.  Whitman 
found  this  an  easier  way  of  summoning 
aid;  it  was  the  "quaint  bell"  mentioned  by 
two  or  three  writers. 

When  the  patient  was  settled  on  the  new 
bed,  he  looked  at  Mrs.  Davis  and  said: 
"You  can  have  the  old  one,  Mary." 

The  Evening  Telegram  gift  was  a  great 
acquisition,  and  it  is  to  be  regretted,  for 
the  sake  both  of  the  invalid  and  those  who 
waited  upon  him,  that  it  did  not  come  in 
some  way  years  before. 


XVII 
"SHIFT,  WARRY" 

"Come,  lovely  and  soothing  death, 
Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 
In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 
Sooner  or  later,  delicate  death" 

— WALT  WHITMAN. 

"She  was  his  loyal  friend  and  nurse.    She  stood  by  him 
in  life,  and  closed  his  eyes  in  death." 

— THOMAS  DONALDSON. 

IN  January,  when  Mr.  Whitman  first  ral 
lied,  wrote  the  few  short  letters  and 
autographed  the  pictures,  his  friends  were 
much  encouraged;  but  subsequent  sinking 
spells  destroyed  their  hopes,  and  his  extreme 
ly  low  condition  led  them  to  belie\7e  that  he 
would  wield  his  pen  no  more.  In  his  poor 
days  scarcely  a  word  was  spoken  in  the 
house,  and  his  three  nurses  worked  silently, 
almost  mechanically,  about  him.  Then  with 
another  temporary  reaction,  hopes  were 
again  renewed  and  a  change  in  everything 
was  manifest;  even  the  dull  little  anteroom 
seemed  brighter. 

On  February  5,  he  had  so  far  regained  his 
strength    as    to    request    writing    materials. 
167 


1 68  WALT  WHITMAN 

His  old  way  of  writing  in  bed  was  to  be 
firmly  propped  up,  with  a  pillow  before  him 
on  which  to  rest  a  light  smooth-covered 
book.  Now  he  was  too  weak  to  hold  the 
book,  and  although  well  supported  at  the 
back  he  found  it  an  almost  insurmountable 
task  to  indite  even  a  few  words.  Mrs. 
Davis  believed  he  could  do  much  better  were 
something  devised  on  which  the  paper  before 
him  could  rest  firmly.  She  was  equal  to  the 
occasion,  for  going  to  a  young  artist  and 
teacher  of  painting  (a  young  lady  named 
Miss  Button)  next  door  she  procured  a 
drawing  board,  to  which  she  had  legs  at 
tached, — two  short  stationary  ones  in  front, 
and  two  longer  at  the  back,  fastened  with 
hinges — thus  making  it  adjustable  to  almost 
any  angle.  The  invention  worked  well,  and 
the  next  day,  when  he  again  requested  pen 
and  ink,  it  was  placed  before  him.  He  was 
surprised  and  pleased,  and  all  he  could  say 
was,  "Just  the  thing;  just  the  thing";  then 
looking  at  the  nurse  he  added:  "That's 
Mary;  that's  Mary;  just  the  right  thing  at 
the  right  time."  Not  Mary  the  efficient 
housekeeper  or  capable  manager,  but  just 
the  right  woman  in  the  right  place. 

It   was   on   this   board   that  Walt  Whit 
man's  last  words  were  inscribed. 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          169 

His  book,  which  had  been  completed,  was 
out  of  the  press,  and  a  few  copies  had  been 
hurried  through  that  he  might  see  the  work 
as  it  would  go  out  into  the  world.  Mr.  D. 
McKay,  his  publisher,  brought  them  over 
one  evening,  and  the  dying  poet  expressed  to 
him  the  great  satisfaction  he  felt  at  the 
manner  in  which  the  edition  had  been  pro 
duced.  He  asked  to  have  fifty  copies  bound 
at  once  in  Manila  paper  covers,  that  he 
might  give  or  send  them  to  certain  friends. 
This  was  done;  he  designated  the  people  who 
were  to  receive  them,  and  Mr.  Traubel  at 
tended  to  the  inscriptions.  The  last  thing 
Walt  wrote  for  printing  was  a  notice  in  re 
gard  to  this  edition.  His  writing  board  was 
of  the  greatest  service  to  him  in  accomplish 
ing  this  task;  without  it,  not  only  this  notice, 
but  his  last  written  words  to  his  friends  at 
large,  his  farewell  Greeting  or  Salutation, 
would  never  have  been  written. 

When  he  had  completed  the  notice,  mak 
ing  numerous  alterations  until  he  seemed  sat 
isfied,  he  called  for  Mrs.  Davis,  who  on  com 
ing  into  the  room  held  a  secret  "confab" 
with  him,  after  which  she  got  ready  and  left 
the  house.  The  following  afternoon  she 
again  left  the  house  and  on  her  return 
handed  Walt  a  printed  proof.  In  this,  as  of 


170  WALT  WHITMAN 

old,  he  made  some  corrections,  and  it  was 
again  taken  out  and  again  called  for.  These 
were  Mary's  last  visits  to  the  "quaint  little 
printing  office,"  and  the  "old  fellow  acquaint 
ance's"  last  acts  of  kindness  to  his  dying 
patron. 

In  the  two  days  intervening  between  the 
writing  of  this  notice  and  its  ultimate  ap 
proval,  Walt  wrote  his  last  words  to  all — the 
final  Greeting  just  mentioned  to  his  friends  at 
large.  He  wrote  it  himself  on  post  office 
paper,  and  when  he  had  covered  one  piece, 
he  called  for  mucilage  with  which  to  add  a 
second.  He  had  measured  the  little  printed 
slip,  and  had  left  a  space  for  it.  He  worked 
intently  until  the  task  was  completed.  His 
tendency  to  recline  backward  made  it  diffi 
cult  for  him  to  use  the  pen  properly,  there 
fore  Mrs.  Davis  or  the  nurse  usually  sat 
behind  him,  and  by  leaning  forward  and 
holding  him  in  her  arms  supported  him  in  a 
more  comfortable  and  convenient  position. 
While  one  assisted  him  in  this  way,  the  other 
held  the  inkstand  near  him,  as  he  could  no 
longer  reach  it  from  its  accustomed  place, 
the  chair  beside  his  bed. 

When  the  Greeting  was  finished,  the 
printed  notice  was  pasted  in  its  place.  The 
original  writing  was  sent  to  Mr.  Bolton  of 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          171 

England,  with  the  request  that  he  would 
have  it  facsimiled  and  distributed  amongst 
all  Walt's  friends.  Here  is  the  letter  Horace 
Traubel  wrote  conveying  the  poet's  wishes. 

CAMDEN,  N.  J.,  February  8th,  1892 

UW.  asked  me  this  ev'g  to  give  you  this 
counsel. — 'If  entirely  convenient,  facsimile 
the  letter  of  February  6th,  and  send  it  copi 
ously  to  European  and  American  friends 
and  friends  anywhere,' — letting  us  have 
copies  here  as  well.  It  was  a  great  struggle 
to  get  this  letter  written  and  he  wishes  it  to 
go  out  as  his  general  salutation  of  friends  to 
whom  his  strength  will  not  permit  him  spe 
cially  to  write.  It  was  framed  with  that  end 


in  view." 


The  request  was  promptly  complied  with 
and  an  exact  reproduction  was  made,  even 
to  the  use  of  two  pieces  of  paper  pasted  to 
gether,  as  in  the  original.  The  desired  cop 
ies  arrived  before  Walt's  death,  and  he  gave 
or  sent  them  to  his  friends,  as  he  had  done 
with  the  author's  copies  of  his  book.  He 
evinced  much  interest  in  doing  this,  and 
kindly  presented  his  nurses  with  both  a  fac 
simile  and  a  book. 


172  WALT  WHITMAN 

As  may  be  supposed,  everyone  was  on  the 
alert  to  secure  his  last  signature,  and  the 
nurse,  who  had  the  advantage  of  being  on 
the  spot  when  he  was  able  to  write,  had  this 
honor.  Selecting  one  of  the  numerous  pho 
tographs  with  which  his  room  abounded — 
she  subsequently  learned  that  this  was  his 
own  favorite  ("Mr.  Whitman  was  not  vain 
as  to  pictures  of  himself.  He  seemed  to 
like  best  the  photograph  showing  him  sitting 
in  a  chair  with  a  butterfly  in  his  hand." — 
Thomas  Donaldson] — she  kept  it  near  his 
bed,  and  when  the  watched-for  opportunity 
came,  one  morning  after  he  had  signed  some 
papers  and  had  written  a  kindly  word  to  his 
sister  (Mrs.  Heyde  of  Burlington,  Vt.), 
while  she  sat  behind  him  as  a  support,  she 
reached  for  it,  telling  him  that  she  would 
like  to  own  it,  and  hoped  if  he  were  not  too 
fatigued  he  would  autograph  it  for  her.  He 
willingly  complied,  saying:  "Yes,  for  you; 
but  I  would  do  it  for  no  one  else."  (I  gave 
this  picture,  with  feelings  of  gratitude  for 
kindness  shown  me,  to  Dr.  Lucien  Howe, 
of  Buffalo,  New  York.— E.  L.  K.)  The 
signature  was  written  with  a  blue  pencil,  as 
he  had  now  discarded  ink.  Only  once  again 
did  he  sign  his  name  in  full,  and  this  was  in 
a  business  document.  He  used  simply  his 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          173 

initials  in  his  last  effort  to  write  to  his 
sister. 

Unhappily,  a  change  of  care  was  in  pros 
pect,  for  Mrs.  Keller  was  to  leave  him  the 
second  week  in  March,  in  consequence  of  an 
engagement  previously  made.  She  had  men 
tioned  this  to  Dr.  Bucke,  who  had  assured 
her  that  it  could  not  possibly  conflict  with 
his  friend's  case.  But  when  the  sick  man 
lingered  until  late  in  February,  it  was  seen 
that  some  steps  must  be  taken.  And  yet  his 
span  of  life  was  so  uncertain,  that  even  at 
this  late  day  it  was  deemed  wiser  not  to 
mention  the  subject  to  him  until  it  could  no 
longer  be  postponed.  The  matter  was  talked 
over  between  his  executors,  his  sister-in-law 
and  the  doctors,  and  all  agreed  that  under 
the  circumstances  a  stranger  in  the  house 
would  not  be  desirable.  Mrs.  Davis  in  par 
ticular  dreaded  it,  and  had  made  provision 
against  it.  The  friend  who  had  before  kept 
house  for  her,  while  she  made  her  trip  to 
Southern  California,  was  to  come  again  to 
do  the  housework,  so  that  her  own  undivided 
time  and  attention  might  be  given  to  the 
dying  man. 

The  nurse  left  on  March  8.  From  this 
time  on  Mr.  Whitman  grew  more  and  more 
uneasy  in  bed,  and  as  he  could  now  lie  upon 


174  WALT  WHITMAN 

his  left  side  but  a  few  moments  at  a  time, 
he  required  almost  constant  turning;  and  for 
eighteen  days  and  nights  his  two  faithful 
attendants  did  this.  A  water  bed  was  bought 
for  him;  he  only  had  the  comfort  of  it  for 
a  single  night. 

"March  25,  1.15  A.  M.,  1892. — We  put 
him  on  the  water  bed  at  twelve  o'clock.  I 
have  turned  him  twice  since,  and  I  can  as 
sure  you  from  present  indications  if  it  does 
the  old  man  no  good,  it  will  us.  He  turns 
just  as  easy  again;  can  turn  him  with  one 
hand,  and  then  it  does  away  with  the  ring. 
He  was  turned  sixty-three  times  in  the  last 
twenty-four  hours;  how  is  that  for  business? 
Kind  of  beats  when  you  were  here.  .  .  . 
Mama  has  one  of  her  old  headaches,  has 
had  it  since  yesterday,  but  hopes  to  be  clear 
of  it  by  morning.  .  .  .  We  had  a  run  of 
visitors  to-day,  and  the  old  gent  had  four 
letters  in  the  morning  mail,  of  which  three 
were  applications  for  autographs."  (Ex 
tracts  from  Warren' s  letter  to  Mrs.  Keller.) 

His  last  days  were  a  repetition  of  the 
preceding  ones;  a  flaring  up  of  the  torch,  and 
a  dying  down;  a  fainter  flare,  and  a  gentle 
going  out. 

On  the  evening  of  March  26  a  little  card 
was  printed  and  widely  circulated. 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          175 

tfamden,  Jf.J*.,  Jtatchgb,  'q®. 

fWh.itm.an  Lec^an  \inkiuia.  at  £.30  &  jtL 
cantLn.ue.dta  Qiaiu.  uiat&e,  and  died  at  fa.^S 

<P.  JtL      IDne  end  came  /Leacefulhj..      JfCe  iu.a& 

canhcLoii&  until  the  Labi.. 

^Jkete  LU.et.e  fee&ent   at  tfie  Le.dh.Lde   w.nen 

he  died  __  ,  jftfA.     (Hauis,    fWatten    &titginQOLt 

and 


This  young  physician  saw  much  of  Mr. 
Whitman  during  the  last  three  months  of 
his  life,  and  his  faithful  services  were  given 
without  price. 

The  evening  previous  to  his  death  Mr. 
Whitman  requested  to  see  Mr.  Donaldson, 
the  trusted  friend  who  had  done  so  much 
to  make  his  home  life  a  success.  He  came 
at  once,  and  they  had  a  long  last  interview. 
Mrs.  Davis  promised  to  notify  him  if  the 
patient  grew  worse,  and  the  next  day  at  three 
p.  M.  she  wrote  for  him  to  come,  saying 
that  Mr.  Whitman  was  surely  "slipping 
away"  from  them.  He  died  before  his 
friend  reached  the  house.  His  last  words 
were  addressed  to  his  faithful  "sailor  boy"  : 
"Shift,  Warry."  It  was  the  time  for  the 
final  turn,  from  life  into  death.  Mrs.  Davis 
closed  his  eyes. 


XVIII 
WINDING  UP 

"...  the  grand  old  man  'whose  kindly  face  we  never 
shall  forget" — DR.  ALEX.  MCALISTER  (In  a  letter  to  Mrs. 
Keller). 

"These  promises  are  fair,    the  parties  sure." 

— SHAKESPEARE  (/  King  Henry  IV). 

ON  the  morrow  the  little  parlors  were 
again  cleared — this  time  to  make  room 
for  a  coffin — and  Walt  Whitman,  at  last 
free  from  pain,  was  brought  downstairs.  An 
artist  was  in  waiting  to  take  a  cast  of  his 
face,  and  later  a  post-mortem  was  held. 
Mrs.  Davis  thought  the  latter  something 
dreadful,  believing  as  she  did  that  it  was 
either  prompted  by  curiosity  or  was  done 
simply  for  the  sake  of  a  newspaper  article. 
When  all  preliminaries  were  over,  the  poet, 
clothed  in  his  accustomed  style,  was  laid  in 
his  coffin.  This,  of  heavy  oak,  was  placed  in 
the  centre  of  one  room,  and  all  through 
the  afternoon  friends  and  acquaintances 
came  to  see  him.  The  following  day  the 
public  was  admitted,  and  thousands  thronged 
176 


WALT  WHITMAN  177 

in  to  look  at  the  familiar  form  and  face: 
that  placid  face,  telling  that  the  long  sought- 
for  rest  was  at  last  attained.  People  en 
tered  through  one  parlor  door,  then  passing 
around  the  coffin  left  by  the  other. 

During  the  morning  Mrs.  Davis  made  a 
hurried  run  to  Philadelphia  to  procure  some 
needful  things  for  the  funeral,  and  on  her 
return  was  surprised  and  horrified  to  find 
that  during  her  absence  a  load  of  empty 
barrels  had  arrived,  and  that  into  these  the 
literary  executors — Dr.  Bucke  having  arrived 
the  night  before — were  hastily  packing 
all  the  movable  contents  of  the  two  upper 
rooms.  This,  to  her,  heartless  expediency 
was  more  than  she  could  bear,  and  going 
upstairs  she  asked  why  Mr.  Whitman's 
things  might  not  remain  undisturbed  until 
after  he  was  buried.  Dr.  Bucke  told  her 
curtly  that  his  own  time  was  limited,  and 
it  was  not  convenient  for  him.  Overcome 
with  grief,  she  sought  her  own  room.  She 
knew  that  Mr.  Whitman's  literary  effects 
belonged  legally  to  his  executors,  but  she 
felt  that  his  home  was  sacred  to  him  while 
he  remained  in  it.  The  barrels  containing 
his  writings  and  some  articles  coming  under 
the  head  of  personal  property,  such  as  books, 
pictures,  his  knapsack,  the  inkstand  Mrs. 


i y8  WALT  WHITMAN 

Davis  had  bought  for  him  while  on  her 
journey,  and  by  him  returned  to  her,  etc., 
were  taken  from  the  house  while  he,  the 
owner,  lay  there  sleeping  in  his  coffin. 

Of  Walt  Whitman's  funeral  much  has 
been  said  and  written.  It  was  arranged 
and  conducted  by  friends,  and  was  attended 
by  many  celebrated  people.  Warren  was  sick 
and  worn  out,  but  kept  up  bravely  and  was 
at  everybody's  bid  and  uon  deck"  through 
out  all;  then  he  was  obliged  to  yield  to  a 
heavy  cold  and  utter  exhaustion.  Mrs.  Davis 
was  little  better  off,  but  was  able  to  be 
around. 

It  has  been  said  that  in  Mr.  Whitman's 
will  he  provided  generously  for  his  house 
keeper.  He  left  her  one  thousand  dollars; 
not  one-fourth  of  the  sum  she  had  expended 
for  him,  without  taking  into  consideration 
her  seven  years  of  unpaid  service — and  such 
service !  The  only  additional  bequest  to  her 
was  the  free  rentage  of  the  house  for  the 
term  of  one  year. 

In  a  few  months  Mrs.  Louise  Whitman 
followed  her  brother-in-law,  and  the  will 
went  into  other  hands.  Still  a  few  months 
later  Edward  Whitman  died  in  the  asylum 
and  was  buried  from  the  undertaker's,  with 
no  services  whatever.  But  three  people  fol- 


IN  MICKLE  STREET         179 

lowed  him  to  the  grave :  his  brother  George, 
Mrs.  Davis,  and  Warren  Fritzinger. 

When  the  professional  nurse  left  Camden, 
Mrs,  Whitman,  to  simplify  matters,  settled 
with  her  from  her  own  private  bank  account. 
This  she  did  in  anticipation  of  the  winding- 
up  of  the  estate  at  the  expiration  of  one  year 
after  the  death  of  her  brother-in-law.  She 
had  talked  with  Mrs.  Davis  on  this  subject 
and  had  instructed  her  to  put  in  her  claim 
at  the  proper  time.  The  year  expired,  but 
Mrs.  Davis  on  presenting  the  claim  was  told 
that  it  was  thought  that  in  all  ways  full  jus 
tice  had  been  done  her,  and  that  no  demands 
whatever  of  hers  would  be  recognized; 
furthermore,  that  it  was  the  wish  of  the 
executors  that  she  should  vacate  the  premises 
at  once. 

This  was  an  unexpected  blow,  and  al 
though  her  regard  for  Dr.  Bucke  personally 
was  lessened,  her  confidence  in  his  integrity 
remained  unshaken,  and  she  immediately 
wrote  to  him.  Unmindful  of  his  promises 
that  all  should  be  well  for  her,  and  that 
he  would  be  personally  responsible,  he  coolly 
refused  to  take  any  part  in  the  matter,  say 
ing  that  it  was  something  which  did  not  in 
the  least  concern  him;  she  must  settle  it 
with  those  at  hand.  She  saw  no  way  of  re- 


i8o  WALT  WHITMAN 

dress,  and  was  given  barely  time  in  which 
to  find  another  house.  What  an  exit! 

Watch,  the  dog,  showed  more  resistance, 
and  was  determined  to  remain  in  his  old 
quarters.  He  absolutely  refused  to  leave, 
and  as  a  last  resort  was  carried  away  in  a 
securely  locked  cab. 

Warren  was  no  better  dealt  with  than  his 
mother.  Sadly  changed  from  the  once  ro 
bust  sailor  boy,  he  tramped  the  streets  of 
Camden  and  Philadelphia  in  search  of  work. 
Any  work  this  time;  any  work  but  nursing! 
He  applied  to  those  who  had  been  Mr. 
Whitman's  most  active  friends  when  any 
thing  of  note  was  going  on,  but  no  encour 
agement  was  given  him;  some  went  so  far 
as  to  tell  him  that  his  services  to  his  late 
patient  had  about  incapacitated  him  for 
many  kinds  of  employment.  He  solicited 
and  applied,  but  no  helping  hand  was  held 
out  to  him.  He  took  soap  orders,  then  ac 
cepted  the  only  thing  that  presented  itself, 
the  position  of  night  watchman  in  a  Camden 
bank.  After  awhile  a  tea  merchant — one  of 
the  most  kind-hearted  of  men  and  a  friend 
of  both  his  mother  and  Mr.  Whitman — 
offered  him  a  clerkship  in  his  store.  He 
would  have  preferred  outside  work,  but  had 
no  choice  and  gladly  accepted.  In  a  year  he 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          181 

married,  and  notwithstanding  disappoint 
ments  and  discouragements,  was  the  same 
bright  cheerful  Warry  to  the  end  of  his 
short  life.  He  died  after  a  few  days'  sick 
ness  in  October,  1899,  aged  thirty-three 
years. 


XIX 
THE  TRIAL 

"  'Tis   called  ungrateful 
With   dull   unwillingness   to    repay   a   debt." 

— SHAKESPEARE  (Richard  ///) . 

"Proceed   in  justice,   which   shall  have   due   course." 

—  (The    Winter's  Tale}. 

BUT  to  go  back.  Mrs.  Davis's  friends, 
many  of  Mr.  Whitman's,  and  a 
number  of  outsiders  were  disgusted  and  in 
dignant  at  the  treatment  she  had  received  and 
united  in  urging  her  to  sue  the  estate  and  take 
her  case  into  court.  She  was  loath  to  do  this, 
and  hesitated  for  a  long  while;  but  in  1894 
the  unsolicited  offer  of  an  eminent  judge  to 
represent  her  without  a  fee  (he  said  she  was 
the  worst  used  woman  he  had  ever  met) 
and  the  continued  persuasions  of  her  friends 
roused  her  at  last  to  stand  up  for  herself, 
and  for  once  to  take  her  own  part.  The 
loss  of  her  money  did  not  trouble  her  so 
much  as  the  thought  of  what  might  be  (and 
had  been)  said  against  her.  She  was  con 
fident  that  had  Mrs.  Whitman  lived  all 
182 


WALT  WHITMAN  183 

would  have  been  different.  But  Mrs.  Whit 
man  had  not  lived,  and  she  had  to  face  a 
problem  that  perplexed  and  saddened  her, 
darkening  her  view  of  human  nature,  and 
throwing  a  shadow  over  the  past  and  the 
future.  The  whole  thing  seemed  so  impos 
sible,  so  hopelessly  unfair. 

The  trial  came  off  in  the  county  court 
house,  Camden,  in  April,  1894.  Mrs.  Davis's 
witnesses  came  voluntarily  to  her  aid — the 
tea  merchant  only,  and  at  his  own  request, 
being  subpoenaed.  There  was  the  former 
orphan  girl,  now  a  wife  and  mother,  who 
told  the  story  of  the  poet's  coming  to  the 
widow's  door;  of  her  many  kind  offices  to 
him,  and  his  appreciation;  of  his  repeated 
promises  to  repay  her  if  she  would  come  to 
live  with  him,  and  his  urgent  appeals  to  her 
to  do  so.  She  gave  the  particulars  of  the 
transfer  into  the  Mickle  Street  house,  and 
much  that  followed  after;  the  purchases 
Mrs.  Davis  had  made,  and  the  expense  she 
had  been  put  to.  The  first  professional 
nurse,  Mr.  Musgrove,  came  forward  that 
he  might  speak  his  good  word  for  the  late 
housekeeper,  and  the  second  and  last  trained 
nurse  (Mrs.  Keller)  was  glad  to  testify  in 
public  to  the  plaintiff's  devotion  to  her  dis 
tinguished  patient,  and  his  great  regard 


1 84  WALT  WHITMAN 

for  her.  Warren  told  the  plain  and  con 
vincing  story  of  Mr.  Whitman's  intentions, 
as  expressed  to  himself,  of  repaying  his 
mother  for  the  money  she  had  spent.  When 
asked  how  he  knew  that  she  had  spent  her 
own  money,  he  answered  that  he  had  recog 
nized  at  least  the  new  gold  pieces  he  had 
given  her — the  double  eagles — which  had 
gone  one  by  one  during  the  last  two  years. 
Then  when  the  defendant's  lawyer  asked, 
in  a  very  insinuating  manner,  what  had  be 
come  of  the  champagne  left  in  the  cellar  at 
the  time  of  Mr.  Whitman's  death,  the  young 
artist  who  lived  next  door  told  how  some 
boys  had  made  their  way  into  the  cellar  one 
day,  had  drunk  the  wine  and  become  hope 
lessly  intoxicated. 

The  friend  who  had  kept  house  on  the 
two  special  occasions,  and  who  had  been  a 
constant  visitor  there  for  seven  years ;  neigh 
bors  who  had  seen  Mrs.  Davis  helping  the 
old  man  in  and  out  of  his  carriage  and  roll 
ing  chair,  and  carefully  covering  and  pro 
tecting  him  while  he  was  sitting  out  of  doors; 
and  others  who  knew  of  her  unremitting  at 
tentions,  all  spoke  for  her,  while  quite  a 
number  of  citizens  told  her  that  her  case 
was  so  strong  they  would  not  volunteer  as 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          185 

witnesses,  but  were  with  her  heart  and  soul. 
Among  these  was  the  young  doctor. 

On  the  opposite  side  were  the  two  literary 
executors,  George  Whitman,  and  a  few 
others.  The  oyster  man  was  there  to  tell  of 
the  quantity  of  oysters  he  had  taken  or 
sent  to  the  house — more  than  one  man,  a 
sick  man  at  that,  could  possibly  consume; 
the  object  was  to  accuse  Mrs.  Davis  by 
suggestion  of  getting  them  for  herself  in  a 
dishonorable  manner;  but  when  on  the  stand 
the  man  could  not  speak,  and  after  the  trial 
went  to  her  and  begged  her  pardon. 

Much  interest  was  manifested  in  the  case, 
which  lasted  two  days;  the  court  room  was 
crowded  at  each  session,  and  it  was  not 
difficult  to  tell  on  which  side  lay  the  sym 
pathy.  Her  opponents  could  bring  no  charge 
against  her;  they  could  only  try  to  slur  her 
and  belittle  what  she  had  done. 

The  testimony  taken,  Mrs.  Davis's  coun 
sel  called  his  client  forward,  placed  a  chair 
for  her  in  the  sight  of  all,  and  then  in  touch 
ing,  eloquent  words  summed  up  the  case, 
saying  that  many  among  those  present  had 
seen  Walt  Whitman  going  about  the  streets 
of  Camden,  alone,  cold  and  neglected,  that 
it  was  a  well-remembered  sight,  just  as  it 
was  a  well-known  fact  that  this  good 


1 86  WALT  WHITMAN 

woman's   heart   and   home   alone  had  been 
opened  to  him. 

As  was  expected,  Mrs.  Davis  won  her 
case ;  she  received  a  fair  sum  of  money,  and 
the  congratulations,  spoken  or  written,  of  all 
who  knew  her  sterling  worth  and  the  true 
story  of  her  years  of  service. 


XX 

CONCLUSION 

"Which  makes  her  story  true,  even  to  the  point  of  her 
death."— SHAKESPEARE    (All's   Well   That  Ends    Well}. 

"A   virtuous   and  a   Christian-like   conclusion." 

—  (Richard  III}. 

IF,  profiting  from  past  experience,  Mrs. 
Davis  had  learned  to  realize  that  into 
all  lives  there  comes  a  time  when  self  has 
the  right  of  consideration,  she  could  have 
avoided  further  complications.  But  the 
early  precepts  were  too  deeply  implanted, 
and  before  she  had  left  the  Mickle  Street 
house  a  selfish  uninteresting  woman  had  in 
some  insidious  way  fastened  upon  her.  This 
burden  she  carried  to  the  end. 

Nor  were  money  troubles  wanting,  grave 
and  crippling,  and  due  of  course  to  the  same 
fatal  habit  of  helping  others  at  her  own  ex 
pense.  One  day  there  came  to  her  in  great 
agitation  an  admirer  of  her  late  friend  and 
patient,  saying  that  he  was  threatened  with 
187 


1 88  WALT  WHITMAN 

financial  ruin,  even  defamation  of  character, 
unless  a  certain  sum  of  money  was  at  once 
forthcoming;  simply  a  loan  for  a  few 
months;  it  would  be  faithfully  repaid.  Mrs. 
Davis  had  long  contemplated  purchasing  a 
small  home;  she  had  the  means  of  doing  so, 
and  this  money  was  at  once  offered  and 
accepted,  but  never  returned.  Warren's 
death  followed,  and  her  one  strong  prop  was 
gone. 

Mrs.  Davis  was  not  much  of  a  corre 
spondent;  but  notwithstanding  this,  she  and 
the  nurse,  Mrs.  Keller,  occasionally  ex 
changed  letters,  and  the  most  friendly  rela 
tions  existed  between  them.  After  there  had 
been  a  longer  silence  than  usual,  Mrs.  Keller 
wrote  to  Dr.  McAlister,  asking  him  if  their 
friend  still  lived  in  Berkley  Street  (the  house 
she  went  to  from  Mickle  Street,  and  the 
only  one  she  lived  in  after  that),  and  if  so, 
requesting  him  to  call  and  learn  why  she  did 
not  write.  He  did  so,  and  replied  that  he 
had  found  Mrs.  Davis  about  as  usual,  that 
she  had  sent  much  love  and  the  promise  of 
writing  soon.  Another  long  interval  of 
silence  followed,  and  finally  came  this  letter 
— the  last  communication  that  passed  be 
tween  them. 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          189 

"434  Berkley  Street,  CAMDEN,  N.  J. 

October  16,  1908. 
"DEAR  MRS.  KELLER, 

I  am  just  in  receipt  of  your  letter.  Yes, 
Dr.  McAlister  did  call  last  spring  and  I  told 
him  I  would  write  you  in  a  few  days,  which 
I  fully  intended  to  do,  but  it  so  turned  out 
that  I  went  to  France  with  a  friend,  where 
I  spent  the  summer;  I  have  been  home  about 
three  weeks.  My  going  away  was  entirely 
unexpected,  and  I  had  but  a  few  hours  to 
get  in  readiness;  left  everything  at  loose 
ends,  and  one  vexatious  oversight  was  I 
forgot  my  address  book.  I  thought  about 
you  many  times,  and  would  have  written  to 
you  from  over  there  had  I  had  your  ad 
dress.  I  was  delighted  to  hear  from  you — 
will  write  to  you  in  a  few  days.  I  am 
wrestling  with  a  bad  cold.  Hope  you  are 
well. 

"Lovingly, 

UM.  O.  DAVIS/' 

Mrs.  Davis  had  always  wished  to  see 
Niagara  Falls,  and  Mrs.  Keller,  whose  home 
was  near  that  city,  hoped  that  the  long 
looked-for  and  talked-of  visit  was  at  last 
near  at  hand;  would  take  place  in  the  fol- 


190  WALT  WHITMAN 

lowing  summer.  Instead,  at  the  expiration 
of  a  month  she  received  a  black-edged  en 
velope,  the  contents  reading: 

"Yourself  and  family  are  respectfully  in 
vited  to  attend  the  funeral  of  Mary  O. 
Davis  on  Monday,  November  23,  at  3  P.  M.; 
from  the  son's  residence — H.  M.  Fritzinger, 
810  State  Street,  Camden,  N.  J.  Interment 
at  Evergreen  Cemetery." 

On  November  20,  1908,  the  following 
notice  appeared  in  several  papers. 

WHITMAN'S    LAST   NURSE   DEAD; 

Woman    Who   Cared  for    Poet   Suc-| 

cumbs  Too. 

Mrs.    Mary    L.    Davis.'    wh#    nursed  i 
Walt  Whitmen»,the  ".Good  Gray  Poet,"  1 
during  his    last  illness,   and  WAS  with  ] 
him   at   his.  death,   at  'No.   328 "  Mickl'e  ' 
street,  Camden,  'died'  Jast  night  in  Coop 
er  Hospital  of  intestinal  troubles.     She 
wia  the  widow  of  Levin  J.  Davis. 

After  "the-  death  of  Whitman  Mrs* 
Davis  resided  for  a  short  time  at  No. 
432  Clinton  street,  Caniden,  and  then 
i*hc-  -jvcjat"  to  !iT#- with  a  wealthy  family, 
in  Tse\v  York  city.-  .  About  a 'year,  ago 
#hfc  developed- -intestinal  .troubles*.' .  !Tlie| 
family  sho  \vats  living  with  .toolt  her.' 
tQ;Parig  for  ..treatment  by  eminelU  gpv*. 
^cihlista.  .  SlXe  returned  a  mocth..  fltfo 
nncV  vrept  to  Camden  to  visit  Hepury  M^ 
Friwinper,  of  No.  810  State  street. 
TUere\^Irs.  Davis  was  taken  .111  "with 
the  affliction  from  which  she.  suffered 
sv>  much,  and  wad  removed  to  Cooper 
Hospital, 

The  nurse  who  had  cared  for  him  in  his 
last  illness ! — not  his  "faithful  housekeeper, 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          191 

nurse  and  friend."  But  the  brief  report,  it 
will  be  seen,  had  more  than  one  error. 

Perhaps  the  best  way  of  giving  a  clear 
picture  of  the  concluding  stages  will  be  to 
quote  a  letter  from  her  son — as  he  was  al 
ways  called;  Warren's  brother  Harry.  It 
is  a  very  human  document. 

"DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  am  convinced  that  you  think  this  letter 
should  have  been  written  long  before,  but 
on  account  of  how  things  have  gone  I  can 
assure  you  that  I  was  taxed  to  the  utmost. 
Mother  died  on  the  i8th  of  November; 
buried  on  the  23rd.  You  would  be  sur 
prised  how  people  who  were  her  friends 
through  money  have  changed.  .  .  . 

"When  Mother  moved  from  Mickle 
Street  to  434  Berkley  Street  she  lived  there 
until  she  died,  although  I  tried  for  years  to 
get  her  to  come  and  live  with  me,  as  she 
would  have  been  company  for  my  wife  when 
I  was  away.  She  had  a  party  living  with 

her  by  the  name  of  Mrs.  H ,  a  big  lazy 

impostor.  She  waited  on  her,  carried  coal 
and  water  upstairs,  ashes  and  slops  down 
stairs,  until  she  worked  herself  into  the  con 
dition  which  she  died  from. 

"About    eighteen    months    or    two    years 


192  WALT  WHITMAN 

ago,  there  was  a  family  by  the  name  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Mailloux,  and  Dr.  Bell  of  New 
York,  admirers  of  Walt  Whitman,  who  came 
on  and  got  acquainted  with  Mother.  They 
took  a  great  liking  to  her  and  offered  her  a 
home  with  them,  but  she  still  stayed  on  in 
Berkley  Street.  Mother  paid  them  several 
visits,  and  at  last  was  persuaded  to  accom 
pany  Mrs.  Mailloux  to  Paris  on  their  regu 
lar  trip,  as  a  companion.  She  left  America 
feeling  as  well  as  ever.  My  wife  and  I  saw 
her  aboard  the  train  at  Broad  Street,  and  she 
was  met  in  Jersey  City  by  her  friends. 

"While  she  was  in  Paris,  this  woman  who 
was  living  with  her  started  the  devil  going, 
when  I  was  compelled  to  go  down  and  take 
charge  of  the  house.  It  warmed  up  until 
I  was  compelled  to  write  to  Mother  and  ask 
her  to  send  me  authority  to  protect  her  in 
terests.  This  spoiled  her  visit;  she  returned 
to  America  before  the  rest  of  the  party. 
When  she  arrived  she  came  directly  to  my 
house ;  was  suffering  with  a  severe  cold.  She 
was  with  us  about  six  weeks.  In  the  mean 
time  my  wife  had  her  fixed  up  in  fairly  good 
shape.  She  told  me  that  she  was  going  to 
break  up  and  come  to  live  with  us,  but  could 
not  do  it  in  a  day  or  two. 

"After  she  was  home  about  a  week  she 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          193 

was  sick.  She  fooled  along  until  I  became 
dissatisfied  and  sent  my  doctor  down  to  her. 
He  attended  her  two  days,  and  ordered  her 
to  the  hospital,  as  an  operation  was  the  only 
thing  to  save  her.  After  she  was  opened 
they  found  the  bowels  separated,  also  a 
cancerous  tumor.  She  lived  five  days  after 
the  operation. 

"All  this  trouble  was  not  felt  until  two 
weeks  before  she  died.  Where  the  report 
came  from  about  her  ill  health  and  going  to 
Paris  for  aid  I  do  not  know,  but  you  always 
find  newspaper  reports  wrong. 

"Well,  there  is  one  thing  that  I  feel 
thankful  for:  that  she  died  before  I  did.  If 
such  had  not  been  the  case,  she  would  have 
been  buried  in  a  pauper's  grave,  or  gone  to 
the  dissecting  table. 

"Mother  has  been  a  friend  to  many;  they 
have  handled  what  money  she  had,  amount 
ing  to  hundreds  of  dollars.  When  she  died 
all  debts  were  cancelled  as  far  as  they  were 
concerned,  and  not  one  would  say:  'Here  is 
five  cents  towards  putting  a  good  and  faith 
ful  servant  away.'  But  Mother  was  laid 
away  as  fine  as  anybody.  ..." 

Little  more  need  be  said.  Mrs.  Davis 
was  comparatively  a  young  woman  at  the 


194  WALT  WHITMAN 

time  of  Walt  Whitman's  death, — being  then 
in  her  fifty-fifth  year, — and  in  the  sixteen 
years  that  followed,  his  friends  passed  away 
one  by  one,  and  she  almost  passed  out  of  the 
memory  of  his  life,  as  though  she  had  never 
taken  part  in  it.  But  the  part  she  did  take 
deserves  remembrance. 

Harry  Fritzinger's  letter  speaks  for  it 
self,  and  I  have  tried,  poorly  as  I  may  have 
done  so,  to  speak  for  one  whom  I  valued 
and  value  as  a  good  woman  and  a  loving 
friend. 


WALT   WHITMAN'S    MONUMENTS 

A    LETTER    WRITTEN    IN    CAMDEN    ON    THE 

TWENTY-SEVENTH  ANNIVERSARY 

OF  HIS  DEATH 

BY  GUIDO  BRUNO 

DEAR  WALT  WHITMAN: 

To-day  is  the  2yth  anniversary  of  your 
death.  I  came  here  to  worship  at  your 
shrine.  I  am  a  European,  you  must  know, 
and  reverence  of  our  great  writers  and  ar 
tists  is  bred  in  us,  is  part  of  our  early  train 
ing.  We  love  to  visit  the  houses  where 
genius  lived,  to  see  with  our  own  eyes  the 
places  our  great  men  loved.  Camden  hasn't 
changed  much  since  you  left.  The  people 
among  whom  you  lived  are  to-day  the  same 
as  they  were  then:  petty,  mean,  vain,  unfor 
giving.  Your  friends  are  few  just  as  in  the 
olden  days.  Let  me  tell  you  about  it. 

It  never  entered  my  mind  to  make  sure 
of  the  street  number  of  your  old  residence. 
"Any  child  on  the  street  will  direct  me," 
I  thought,  "to  Whitman's  house."  Getting 
off  the  ferry,  the  same  ferry  on  which  you 
195 


196  WALT  WHITMAN 

loved  to  ride  back  and  forth,  in  spring  and 
autumn,  I  asked  a  policeman  how  to  get  to 
your  house.  "The  Whitman  House?"  he  re 
peated;  "it's  somewhere  out  of  the  way,  I'm 
sure.  You  had  better  stop  in  the  Ridgely 
House.  That's  the  best  place  in  town."  He 
knew  nothing  of  you  and  thought  I  was 
looking  for  a  hotel.  A  druggist  at  the  near 
by  corner  knew  about  you.  "William  Kettler 
used  to  be  a  great  friend  of  his,"  he  told  me. 
"He'll  tell  you  all  about  him."  And  he  gave 
me  Mr.  Kettler's  address.  Mr.  Kettler  still 
lives  on  North  Street,  and  has  become  chief 
city  librarian  lately.  He's  very  deaf,  but 
extremely  kind  and  friendly.  He  was  in  the 
midst  of  moving.  Mrs.  Kettler  is  ill,  you 
must  know,  and  they  will  live  on  the  shore 
for  the  rest  of  the  season. 

"This  Whitman  cult  makes  me  sick,"  he 
commenced.  "Who  was  Whitman  anyway? 
A  poet?  I  dare  say  that  there  are  hundreds 
of  magazine  writers  to-day  as  there  were 
during  his  lifetime,  who  write  just  as  good 
verse  as  he  did.  And  his  prose  is  abomin 
able.  His  writings  are  not  fit  to  be  read  in 
a  respectable  home.  They  corrupt  the  mind 
and  are  dangerous  to  the  morals.  We  knew 
him  well,  we  saw  him  daily  and  his  dis 
graceful  way  of  living  was  open  town  talk. 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          197 

"I  was  a  newspaper  man  and  associated 
with  the  old  Camden  Post  at  the  time  of 
Bonsall,  when  Whitman  used  to  come  to  see 
us  almost  daily.  Bonsall  used  to  be  a  friend 
of  his  and  did  him  a  great  many  good  turns. 
But  Whitman  was  an  ingrate. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  we  respectable  citi 
zens  of  Camden  think  of  him?  I  don't  mean 
the  young  generation,  but  the  people  who 
actually  knew  him.  It  doesn't  sound  nice  to 
speak  badly  about  dead  people.  But  we 
knew  him  as  an  incorrigible  beggar  who 
lived  very  immorally  ...  an  old  loafer. 

"Why,  only  a  few  months  ago,  one  of  the 
most  prominent  citizens  of  our  town,  John 
J.  Russ,  the  great  real  estate  dealer,  objected 
to  Whitman's  name  on  the  Honor  Tablet  of 
our  new  library.  Judge  Howard  Carrot  of 
Merchantville  could  tell  you  how  that  old 
scoundrel  got  people  into  trouble,  and  if 
the  case  had  come  into  court,  the  scandal 
would  have  been  so  great,  that  the  Judge 
decided  to  dispose  of  it  privately. 

"I  remember,  several  years  after  the  Civil 
War,  Whitman's  last  visit  to  the  Camden 
Post.  Mr.  Bonsall,  the  chief  editor,  myself 
and  Whitman  were  chatting  in  the  office. 
There  was  a  very  young  reporter  in  the 
room.  Mr.  Whitman  insisted  on  telling  us 


198  WALT  WHITMAN 

one  of  his  filthy  stories.  He  knew  many  of 
them  and  would  tell  them  without  discrimi 
nating  who  was  present.  Filth  seemed  to  be 
always  on  his  mind.  Mr.  Bonsall  was 
shocked.  And  I  remember  distinctly  what 
he  told  him,  before  turning  him  out  of  the 
office.  'Look  here,  Whitman,'  he  said,  'why 
don't  you  become  a  useful  citizen,  like  every 
one  of  us?  You  never  did  anything  decent 
and  worthy  of  an  American  citizen.  Wliile 
we  took  up  our  guns  and  went  out  to  fight 
the  enemy,  you  stalked  about  hospitals,  pos 
ing  as  a  philanthropist.  Later  on,  we  re 
turned  to  civilian  life,  hunting  jobs  and  pen 
sions,  trying  to  earn  a  livelihood,  while  you 
were  preaching  Humanitarian  principles  and 
talking  against  the  cruelties  of  warfare  on 
Union  Square.  Now,  while  we  are  chained 
to  our  jobs,  you  are  writing  pornographic 
pieces  that  no  self-respecting  publisher  would 
print,  and  loaf  about  most  of  the  time,  cor 
rupting  our  young  folk.  I  will  not  tolerate 
loose  talk  in  these  offices,  therefore,  get  out 
and  never  let  me  see  you  again.'  ' 

"But  haven't  you  said,"  I  interjected, 
"that  Mr.  Bonsall  was  a  friend  of  Whit 
man?" 

"They  used  to  be  friends,"  cried  Mr. 
Kettler,  "until  that  treacherous  business  of 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          199 

the  poem  came  up.  Whitman  was  getting  up 
a  little  book  of  poems.  Mr.  Bonsall,  who, 
in  my  estimation,  was  not  only  an  excellent 
man  and  writer,  but  also  a  poet  of  no  mean 
ability,  sent  in  a  contribution.  This  par 
ticular  poem  was  very  beautiful.  It  was  the 
only  one  that  Whitman  did  not  print.  Ever 
since  Mr.  Bonsall  and  myself  had  not  much 
use  for  Whitman,  who  stabbed  his  friends 
in  the  back  at  the  first  opportunity." 

"Hurt  vanity,"  I  thought.  How  small 
this  man  Kettler  seemed  to  me  with  his 
petty  grievances.  Forty  years  have  passed 
and  he  couldn't  forget  your  refusal  of  a 
poem. 

"But  what  is  the  worst,"  Mr.  Kettler  con 
tinued,  "Whitman  has  spoiled  the  life  of 
Horace  Traubel.  What  an  excellent  young 
man  he  used  to  be,  the  son  of  an  honored, 
upright  citizen.  Traubel  got  obsessed  with 
Whitman's  greatness.  He  devoted  his  whole 
life  to  Whitman.  He  took  Whitman's 
morals  for  his  own  standard."  And  Mr. 
Kettler  proceeded  to  tell  about  Traubel's 
private  life.  Some  stories  a  policeman's 
wife,  Traubel's  next  door  neighbor,  had  told 
him. 

Does  all  this  amuse  you,  Walt  Whitman? 

The  frame-house  where  you  lived  is  in  a 


200  WALT  WHITMAN 

dreadful  condition.  An  Italian  family  is 
living  there.  A  taxi  driver,  Thomas  Skymer. 
He  has  three  children  and  four  boarders. 
The  boarders  have  children,  too.  A  litter 
of  young  ones  are  playing  in  your  back  yard, 
around  the  broken  well.  Your  front  room, 
where  you  used  to  sit  near  the  window  and 
entertain  your  visitors,  is  a  living  and  din 
ing  room  combined.  Not  even  a  picture  of 
yours  is  in  this  room.  Over  the  mantel 
hangs  a  cheap  chromo  of  the  Italian  King. 
One  of  the  little  boys  knew  your  name.  "Do 
you  want  to  see  where  the  old  guy  died?" 
he  asked,  and  led  me  into  the  back  room  on 
the  same  floor.  There  was  a  big  bed  there. 
I  never  saw  a  bigger  one  in  my  life.  "We 
all  sleep  in  it,"  said  the  boy. 

I  know,  Walt  Whitman,  you  are  shrugging 
your  shoulders,  smiling  indifferently.  What 
does  it  matter  to  you  who  is  sleeping  now  in 
the  room  where  you  died,  who  is  living  now 
in  the  house  where  you  lived,  loved  and  sang? 
But  my  heart  cramped  and  ached.  The 
poverty,  the  bad  odor,  the  utter  irreverence ! 
This  Italian  pays  $10  a  month  rent.  The 
neighborhood  is  run  down,  and  the  property 
could  be  easily  bought  for  a  few  thousand 
dollars.  Is  this  how  the  greatest  nation 
honors  its  greatest  literary  genius? 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          201 

Your  enthusiastic  young  physician,  Dr. 
Alexander  McAlister,  has  grown  a  bit  old, 
but  not  in  spirit.  He  took  me  up  to  his 
library  and  here,  as  well  as  in  his  heart,  you 
have  found  your  sanctuary. 

"I  loved  Walt  Whitman,"  Dr.  McAlister 
said,  "ever  since  I  was  a  student  in  the  med 
ical  school,  and  met  the  old  gentleman  regu 
larly  on  the  street.  We  talked  occasionally; 
once  he  asked  me  to  his  house,  later  on, 
after  my  graduation,  I  had  occasion  to  ren 
der  him  professional  services,  and  for  all  the 
years,  until  Whitman's  death,  I  called  on 
him  at  least  once  a  day.  He  was  the  most 
clean-minded  and  kind  man  I  have  ever  met. 
I  never  heard  him  utter  an  obscene  word. 
The  magnificent  personality  of  Walt  Whit 
man  and  his  general  comradeship,  inspired 
by  his  ingrained  feelings  and  intuitive  beliefs 
concerning  the  destiny  of  America,  must  cer 
tainly  have  impressed  all  who  met  him  long 
before  he  was  known  as  a  poet.  He  lived 
a  life  so  broad  and  noble  that  it  will  be  more 
studied  and  emulated,  and  will  sink  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  heart.  The  social,  hu 
man  world,  through  his  aid,  will  reach  a 
level  hitherto  unattained.  The  new  life 
which  he  preached  has  not  been  even 
dreamed  of  yet,  has  not  become  yet  an  object 


202  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  aspiration  to  us  Americans.  He  has  set 
the  spark  to  the  prepared  fuel,  the  living 
glow  has  crept  deeply  into  the  dormant 
mass;  even  now  tongues  of  flame  begin  to 
shoot  forth.  The  longer  Whitman  is  dead 
the  better  he  will  be  known.  He  seems  to 
me  the  typical  American,  the  typical  modern, 
the  source  and  centre  of  a  new,  spiritual 
aspiration,  saner  and  manlier  than  any  here 
tofore.  Whitman  thought  that  man  has 
within  him  the  element  of  the  Divine,  and 
that  this  element  was  capable  of  indefinite 
growth  and  expansion. 

"He  was  the  most  democratic  man  that 
ever  lived.  Everybody  was  welcome  to  his 
house,  everybody  his  equal,  he  was  every 
body's  friend.  He  had  many  enemies,  but 
also  many  friends.  He  thought  Ingersoll  his 
best  friend.  Dr.  Longaker  and  Horace 
Traubel  were  almost  always  present,  espe 
cially  during  the  last  years  of  his  life.  Once 
in  a  while  they  got  on  his  nerves  because  they 
continually  carried  paper  and  pencil,  writing 
down  every  word  he  said.  Let  me  tell  you 
a  few  incidents  of  his  last  illness.  They  all 
expected  him  to  die.  Traubel  and  Dr.  Long 
aker  were  constantly  in  the  hall  outside  of 
the  sick  room,  eager  to  catch  every  one  of 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          203 

Whitman's  words.  Warren  Fritzinger,  his 
nurse,  was  with  him. 

"  'Are  those  damn  fools  out  there  this 
afternoon?'  he  remarked  when  his  condition 
became  very  weak  and  the  rustling  of  papers 
in  the  hall  seemed  to  annoy  him. 

"The  day  before  he  died  I  came  in  the 
morning  and  asked  him,  'How  do  you  feel?' 

"  'Well,  Doctor,'  he  answered,  'I  am  tired 
of  this  dreadful  monotony  of  waiting.  I  am 
tired  of  the  sword  of  Damocles  suspended 
over  my  head.'  ' 

Would  it  interest  you,  Walt  Whitman,  to 
know  about  your  last  minutes  on  earth,  when 
you  lay  unconscious  in  a  coma?  Dr.  Mc- 
Alister  described  them  to  me.  "His  end 
was  peaceful.  He  died  at  6  143  P.  M.  At 
4:30  he  called  Mrs.  Davis  and  requested 
to  be  shifted  from  the  position  he  was  lying 
in.  The  nurse  was  sent  for,  and  later  on 
they  sent  me  a  message.  When  I  reached 
his  bedside,  he  was  lying  on  his  right  side,  his 
pulse  was  very  weak  and  his  respiration  cor 
respondingly  so.  I  asked  him  if  he  suffered 
pain  and  if  I  could  do  anything  for  him.  He 
smiled  kindly  and  murmured  low.  He  lay 
quietly  for  some  time  with  closed  eyes.  A 
little  after  5  his  eyes  opened  for  a  moment, 
his  lips  moved  slightly,  and  he  succeeded  in 


204  WALT  WHITMAN 

whispering:  Warry,  Shift.'  Warry  was  his 
nurse,  and  these  were  the  last  words  of  Whit 
man.  Then  the  end  came.  I  bent  over  him 
to  detect  the  last  sign  of  the  fleeting  life. 
His  heart  continued  to  pulsate  for  fully  fifty 
minutes  after  he  ceased  breathing." 

Dr.  McAlister  was  a  great  friend  of 
yours,  Walt  Whitman,  and  I  feel  that  you 
are  with  him  every  minute  of  his  life.  He 
showed  me  letters  from  your  old  nurse,  Mrs. 
Keller,  who  wrote  a  few  articles  about  you. 
He  treasures  the  books  you  inscribed  for 
him,  your  pictures  hang  on  his  walls  and  he 
especially  loves  the  little  plaster  cast  you 
gave  him. 

Of  course,  you  know  that  an  autopsy  was 
performed  shortly  after  your  death.  May  I 
tell  you  about  your  brain,  which  is  at  present 
in  the  possession  of  the  Anthropometric  So 
ciety?  I  believe  it  is  an  honor  to  have  one's 
brains  placed  in  this  society's  museum,  be 
cause  this  society  has  been  organized  for  the 
express  purpose  of  studying  high-type  brains. 
The  cause  of  your  death  was  pleurisy  of 
your  left  side  and  consumption  of  the  right 
lung.  You  had  a  fatty  liver,  and  a  large  gall 
stone  in  the  gall  bladder.  The  good  doctors 
marvelled  that  you  could  have  carried  on 
respiration  for  so  long  a  time  with  the 


IN  MICKLE  STREET         205 

limited  amount  of  useful  lung  tissue.  They 
ascribed  it  largely  to  that  indomitable  energy 
"which  was  so  characteristic  of  everything 
pertaining  to  the  life  of  Walt  Whitman." 
They  said  in  their  official  report  that  any 
other  man  would  have  died  much  earlier  with 
one-half  of  the  pathological  changes  which 
existed  in  your  body. 

In  the  late  afternoon  while  the  sun  was 
setting  over  an  ideal  spring  day,  I  walked 
out  to  the  Harleigh  Cemetery,  where  you 
built  for  yourself  that  magnificent  tomb. 
How  wise  you  were,  Walt  Whitman,  to  su 
pervise  the  cutting  of  the  stones,  to  watch 
the  workmen  while  they  were  preparing  your 
grave.  What  a  beautiful  spot  you  chose  for 
your  last  resting  place.  The  lake  lay  still 
in  the  warm  evening  air,  the  willows  swayed 
gently  as  if  patted  by  unseen  hands.  An  old 
working-man,  about  to  leave  the  cemetery, 
showed  me  the  spot  where  you  used  to  sit 
and  watch  them  work.  He  told  me  how  you 
wrote  "pieces"  on  scraps  of  paper  that  you 
borrowed  here  and  there,  and  how  you  read 
them  to  the  stonecutters,  who  were  building 
your  tomb.  I  asked  for  the  key.  They 
keep  it  locked  lately.  I  opened  the  heavy 
granite  door,  and  stood  for  quite  a  while 
in  the  semi-darkness  of  your  little  house.  I 


206  WALT  WHITMAN 

thought  of  you  lying  there  on  your  bier, 
peaceful,  indifferent,  kind.  Then  I  thought 
of  the  other  monument  you  had  built 
in  words,  a  temple  not  made  with  hands, 
builded  for  eternity. 

Always  self-sufficing,  walking  your  own 
path  towards  your  own  goal.  No  legend 
tells  of  you,  of  your  life  or  achievement. 
You  live  in  the  hearts  of  thousands  of 
Americans.  Soon,  very  soon,  perhaps,  your 
name  and  America  will  be  synonymous. 
Walt  Whitman,  we  here  on  earth  are  awak 
ening  to  your  ideals  of  America. 

Affectionately  yours, 

GUIDO  BRUNO 


WALT  WHITMAN  SPEAKS 


EVER  upon  this  stage 

Is  acted  God's  calm  annual  drama, 

Gorgeous  processions,  songs  of  birds, 

Sunrise  that  fullest  feeds  and  freshens  most 
the  soul, 

The  heaving  sea,  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 
the  musical,  strong  waves, 

The  woods,  the  stalwart  trees,  the  slender, 
tapering  trees, 

The  liliput  countless  armies  of  the  grass, 

The  heat,  the  showers,  the  measureless  pas 
turages, 

The  scenery  of  the  snows,  the  winds'   free 
orchestra, 

The  stretching  light-hung  roof  of  clouds,  the 
clear  cerulean  and  the  silvery  fringes, 

The  high  dilating  stars,  the  placid  beckon 
ing  stars, 

The  moving  flocks  and  herds,  the  plains  and 
emerald  meadows, 

The  shows  of  all  the  varied  lands  and  all  the 
growths  and  products. 

[The  Return  of  the  Heroes] 


209 


210  WALT  WHITMAN 


SHOT  gold,  maroon  and  violet,  dazzling  sil 
ver,  emerald,  fawn, 

The  earth's  whole  amplitude  and  Nature's 
multiform  power  consign'd  for  once  to 
colors ; 

The  light,  the  general  air  possess'd  by  them 
— colors  till  now  unknown, 

No  limit,  confine  —  not  the  Western  sky 
alone  —  the  high  meridian  —  North, 
South,  all, 

Pure  luminous  color  fighting  the  silent  shad 
ows  to  the  last. 

\_A  Prairie  Sunset] 


IN  MICKLE  STREET         211 


EVER  the  undiscouraged,  resolute,  struggling 
soul  of  man; 

(Have  former  armies  fail'd?  then  we  send 
fresh  armies  —  and  fresh  again)  ; 

Ever  the  grappled  mysteries  of  all  earth's 
ages  old  or  new; 

Ever  the  eager  eyes,  hurrahs,  the  welcome- 
clapping  hands,  the  loud  applause; 

Ever    the    soul    dissatisfied,    curious,    uncon 
vinced  at  last, 

Struggling  to-day  the   same  —  battling   the 
same. 

[Life-] 


212  WALT  WHITMAN 


SPIRIT  that  form'd  this  scene, 
These  tumbled  rock-piles  grim  and  red, 
These  reckless  heaven-ambitious  peaks, 
These   gorges,   turbulent-clear  streams,   this 

naked  freshness, 
These  formless  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of 

their  own, 

I  know  thee,  savage  spirit  —  we  have  com 
muned  together, 
Mine  too  such  wild  arrays,   for  reasons  of 

their  own; 
Was't  charged  against  my  chants  they  had 

forgotten  art? 
To  fuse  within  themselves  its  rules  precise 

and  delicatesse? 
The  lyrist's  measur'd  beat,  the  wrought-out 

temple's   grace  —  column   and  polish'd 

arch  forgot? 
But  thou   that   revellest  here  —  spirit   that 

form'd  this  scene, 
They  have  remember'd  thee. 

[Spirit  That  Formed  This  Scene} 


IN  MICKLE  STREET         213 


QUICKSAND  years  that  whirl  me  I  know  not 

whither, 
Your  schemes,  politics,  fail,  lines  give  way, 

substances  mock  and  elude  me, 
Only  the  theme  I  sing,  the  great  and  strong- 

possess'd  soul,  eludes  not, 
One's-Self  must  never   give   way  —  that   is 

the  final  substance  —  that  out  of  all  is 

sure, 
Out  of  politics,  triumphs,  battles,  life,  what 

at  last  finally  remains? 
When  shows  break  up  what  but  One's-Self 

is  sure? 

[Quicksand  Years] 


2i4  WALT  WHITMAN 


O  LIVING  always,  always  dying! 

O  the  burials  of  me  past  and  present, 

O  me  while  I  stride  ahead,  material,  visible, 

imperious  as  ever; 
O  me,  what  I  was  for  years,  now  dead,   (I 

lament  not,  I  am  content)  ; 
O  to  disengage  myself  from  those  corpses  of 

me,  which  I  turn  and  look  at  where  I 

cast  them, 
To  pass  on  (O  living!  always  living!)   and 

leave  the  corpses  behind. 
[O  Living  Always,  Always  Dying] 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          215 


THIS  is  thy  hour,  O  Soul,  thy  tree  flight  into 

the  wordless, 
Away  from  books,  away  from  art,  the  day 

erased,  the  lesson  done, 
Thee   fully   forth   emerging,    silent,    gazing, 

pondering  the  themes  thou  lovest  best, 
Night,  sleep,  death  and  the  stars. 

[A  Clear  Midnight'] 


2i6  WALT  WHITMAN 


I  WAS  thinking  the  day  most  splendid  till  I 
saw  what  the  not-day  exhibited, 

I  was  thinking  this  globe  enough  till  there 
sprang  out  so  noiseless  around  me 
myriads  of  other  globes. 

Now  while  the  great  thoughts  of  space  and 

eternity  fill  me  I  will  measure  myself  by 

them, 
And  now   touch'd  with  the   lives  of  other 

globes  arrived  as  far  along  as  those  of 

the  earth, 
Or  waiting  to  arrive,  or  pass'd  on  farther 

than  those  of  the  earth, 
I  henceforth  no  more  ignore  them  than  I 

ignore  my  own  life, 
Or  the  lives  of  the  earth  arrived  as  far  as 

mine,  or  waiting  to  arrive. 

0  I  see  now  that  life  cannot  exhibit  all  to 

me,  as  the  day  cannot, 

1  see  that  I  am  to  wait  for  what  will  be  ex 

hibited  by  death. 

[Night  on  the  Prairies'] 


IN  MICKLE  STREET         217 


Now  the  great  organ  sounds, 

Tremulous,  while  underneath  (as  the  hid 
footholds  of  the  earth, 

On  which  arising  rest,  and  leaping  forth 
depend, 

All  shapes  of  beauty,  grace  and  strength,  all 
hues  we  know, 

Green  blades  of  grass  and  warbling  birds, 
children  that  gambol  and  play,  the 
clouds  of  heaven  above) 

The  strong  base  stands,  and  its  pulsations 
intermits  not, 

Bathing,  supporting,  merging  all  the  rest, 
maternity  of  all  the  rest, 

And  with  it  every  instrument  in  multitudes, 

The  players  playing,  all  the  world's  mu 
sicians, 

The  solemn  hymns  and  masses  rousing 
adoration, 

All  passionate  heart-chants,  sorrowful  ap 
peals, 

The  measureless  sweet  vocalists  of  ages, 

And  for  their  solvent  setting  earth's  own 
diapason, 

Of  winds  and  woods  and  mighty  ocean 
waves, 


2i8  WALT  WHITMAN 

A  new  composite  orchestra,  binder  of  years 

and  climes,  ten-fold  renewer, 
As  of  the  far-back  days  the  poets  tell,  the 

Paradiso, 
The  straying  thence,  the  separation  long,  but 

now  the  wandering  done, 
The   journey   done,    the    journeyman    come 

home, 

And  man  and  art  with  Nature  fused  again. 
[Proud  Music  of  the  Storm] 


IN  MICKLE  STREET         219 

Now  trumpeter  for  thy  close, 
Vouchsafe  a  higher  strain  than  any  yet, 
Sing  to  my  soul,  renew  its  languishing  faith 

and  hope, 
Rouse    up    my   slow   belief,    give    me    some 

vision  of  the  future, 
Give  me  for  once  its  prophecy  and  joy. 

O  glad,  exulting,  culminating  song! 

A  vigor  more  than  earth's  is  in  thy  notes, 

Marches  of  victory  —  man  disenthral'd  — 

the  conqueror  at  last, 
Hymns  to  the  universal  God  from  universal 

man  —  all  joy! 
A  reborn  race  appears  —  a  perfect  world, 

all  joy ! 
Women  and  men  in  wisdom,  innocence  and 

health  —  all  joy! 

Riotous  laughing  bacchanals  fill'd  with  joy! 
War,    sorrow,    suffering    gone  —  the    rank 

earth  purged  —  nothing  but  joy  left ! 
The  ocean  fill'd  with  joy  —  the  atmosphere 

all  joy ! 
Joy!  joy!  in  freedom,  worship,  love!  joy  in 

the  ecstasy  of  life ! 

Enough  to  merely  be !  enough  to  breathe ! 
Joy!  joy!  all  over  joy! 

[The  Mystic  Trumpeter] 


220  WALT  WHITMAN 


THE  touch  of  flame  —  the  illuminating  fire 
—  the  loftiest  look  at  last, 

O'er  city,  passion,  sea  —  o'er  prairie,  moun 
tain,  wood  —  the  earth  itself; 

The  airy,  different,  changing  hues  of  all,  in 
falling  twilight, 

Objects  and  groups,  bearings,  faces,  reminis 
cences  ; 

The  calmer  sight  —  the  golden  setting,  clear 
and  broad: 

So  much  i'   the   atmosphere,  the  points   of 
view,  the  situation  whence  we  scan, 

Brought  out  by  them  alone  —  so  much  (per 
haps  the  best)  unreck'd  before; 

The  lights   indeed   from  them  —  old  age's 
lambent  peaks. 

[Old  Age's  Lambent  Peaks'] 


IN  MICKLE  STREET         221 


THANKS  in  old  age  —  thanks  ere  I  go, 

For  health,  the  midday  sun,  the  impalpable 
air  —  for  life,  mere  life, 

For  precious  ever-lingering  memories,  (of 
you,  my  mother  dear  —  you,  father  — 
you,  brothers,  sisters,  friends), 

For  all  my  days  —  not  those  of  peace  alone 
—  the  days  of  war  the  same, 

For  gentle  words,  caresses,  gifts  from  for 
eign  lands, 

For  shelter,  wine  and  meat  —  for  sweet  ap 
preciation, 

(You  distant,  dim  unknown  —  or  young  or 
old  —  countless,  unspecified,  readers 
belov'd, 

We  never  met,  and  ne'er  shall  meet  —  and 
yet  our  souls  embrace,  long,  close  and 
long)  ; 

For  beings,  groups,  love,  deeds,  words, 
books  —  for  colors,  forms, 

For  all  the  brave  strong  men  —  devoted, 
hardy  men  —  whoVe  forward  sprung 
in  freedom's  help,  all  years,  all  lands, 

For  braver,  stronger,  more  devoted  men  — 
(a  special  laurel  ere  I  go,  to  life's  war's 
chosen  ones, 


222  WALT  WHITMAN 

The  cannoneers  of  song  and  thought  —  the 
great  artillerists  —  the  foremost  lead 
ers,  captains  of  the  soul)  : 

As  soldier  from  an  ended  war  return'd  —  as 
traveller  out  of  myriads,  to  the  long 
procession  retrospective, 

Thanks  —  joyful  thanks  !  —  a  soldier's, 
traveller's  thanks. 

[Thanks  in  Old  Age] 


IN  MICKLE  STREET          223 


Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowl 
edge  curious, 

And  for  love,  sweet  love  —  but  -praise! 
praise!  praise! 

For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfold 
ing  death. 

[When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard 

Bloom' d] 


INDEX 


ACHARON    SOCIETY,   60 
Aldrich,  T.  B.,  139 
Anthropometric   Society,   204 
"Auntie,  Blind,"   i,  2,   3 

BELL,  Dr.,  192 

"Blind  Auntie,"  i,  2,  3 

Bolton,  Mr.,  171 

Bonsall,  Mr.,  197 

Bruno,  Guido,  195,  206 

Bucke,  Dr.  R.  M.,  ix,   102,   103,   105,   106,   108,   109,   149, 

150,  151,  152,  153,  154,  158,  173,  177 
Button,  Miss,  168 

CAMDEN  Post,  197 
Carrot,  Judge  Howard,  197 
Childs,  George  W.,   13 
"Coddie,"   162 
Cooper  Hospital,  190 

DAVIS,   Capt.  L.  J.,  4,   190 

Davis,  Mary  O.,  passim 

Donaldson,  Blaine,  49 

Donaldson,  Thomas,   i,   8,    10,   n,   12,   13,   14,   18,  21,  30, 

37,   38,  39,  47,  48,  49,   5^,   61,   100,   103,   in,   113,   119, 

127,  146,  172,  175 
Duckett,  Wm.,  69 

ELLIS,  Sarah,  v 

FRITZINGER,  Capt,  4,  5,  n,  25,  62 

Fritzinger,   Henry  M.,    119,    163,    190,   191,    192,    193,    194 

Fritzinger,  Mrs.,  3,  18,  68 

Fritzinger,  Walt  Whitman,  164 

Fritzinger,  Warren,  119  sqq.,  203,  204 

GILCHRIST,  Herbert,  76  sqq. 
225 


226  INDEX 

HARLEIGH  Cemetery,   133,  138,  205 
Harned,  Thomas  B.,   101,  151 
Heyde,  Mrs.,  172 
Hicks,  Elias,  95 
Howe,  Dr.  Lucien,   172 

INGERSOLL,  Col.  Robt.,  133,  134,  135,  161,  202 
In  Re  Walt  Whitman,  9,  112,  126 

JOHNSTON,  Jas.,  x 

Johnston,  Mr.   (N.  Y.),  133,   134 

KELLER,  Mrs.  E.  L.,  v,  vi,  vn,   164,   172,   173,   174,  176, 

183,   188,  204 
Keller,   Wm.  Wallace,  v 

Kennedy,  Wm.   Sloane,  67,  99,   113,  133,  140,   189 
Kettler,   Wm.,    196,    198,    199 
Kettler,  Mrs.  W.,  196 

Leaves  of  Grass,  157 
Leavitt,   Jas.   S.,   v 
Lincoln  lecture,  60,  69,  130 
Longaker,  Dr.,  161,  202 

McALISTER,    Dr.    Alex.,    161,    175,    176,    188,    189,    201, 

203,  204 
McKay,  D.,  169 
Mailloux,  Mr.,  192 
Mailloux,  Mrs.,   192 
Mary,  58 

Morse,  Sidney,  18,  37,  73  sgg. 
Musgrove,  Mr.,  108,  183 

N.  Y.  Evening  Telegram,  165,  166 
N.  Y.  Herald,  54,  137 
N.  Y.  Times,  71 
N.  Y.  Tribune,  70 

PACKARD,   S.  T.,  98 
Perry,  Bliss,   142 

RUSS,  J.  J.,  167 

ST.  MARK  (quoted),  i 
Shakespeare  (quoted),  176,  182,  187 
Skymer,  Thomas,  200 


INDEX  227 

Stafford  family,  67 
Stedman,  Laura,  70 
Swinton,  John,  137,  138 

THOMPSON,  Vance,  27 

"Timber  Creek,"  67,  90 

Traubel,  Horace,  30,  55,  68,  101,  107,  126,  151,  165,  171, 

199,  202 
Trowbridge,  John  T.,    129 

Walt  Whitman  the  Man,  8 

Whitman,  Edward,   31,  63,  178 

Whitman,   George,   9,    104,   153,    179,    185 

Whitman,  Jefferson,  153 

Whitman,  Miss  Jessie,  153 

Whitman,  Mrs.  G.,  63,  104,  106,  156,  158,  178,  182 

Wilkins,  E.,  55,  115,  119,  129,  137 

Women's  Hospital,  Phila.,  vi 


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MAY  11  l@45.jg 


tt 


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4  N 


1963 


D  I.D 


LD  21-100m-12,'43  (8796s) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


